Loitering
by thedancingcrown
Summary: Jason's attempts to leave a familiar porch are rudely interrupted. (rated T for safety)
1. adrift

**~adrift~**

* * *

"Who has never killed an hour? Not casually or without thought, but carefully: a premeditated murder of minutes. The violence comes from a combination of giving up, not caring, and a resignation that getting past it is all you can hope to accomplish. So you kill the hour. You do not work, you do not read, you do not daydream. If you sleep it is not because you need to sleep. And when at last it is over, there is no evidence: no weapon, no blood, and no body. The only clue might be the shadows beneath your eyes or a terribly thin line near the corner of your mouth indicating something has been suffered, that in the privacy of your life you have lost something and the loss is too empty to share."

― Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves

* * *

It was starting to look – and feel – a little like Jason's mood – overcast and chilly.

What bright sunlight had accompanied his arrival had been dimmed with the ever-quickening crawl of deep grey clouds crossing the sky.

If it started raining soon, he didn't want to be here anymore.

Probably hadn't wanted to be here when the sun was still shining either.

Ugh.

What had he been thinking – making the trip only to stand in front of the door?

Idiot.

…

Anyway.

If he was going to leave, now was the perfect time – less he get drenched in a storm and catches a cold on his way home to boot. And wouldn't that just be his luck?

Yeah. Definitely time to leave.

Scowling at the doorknob – the details of which he could replicate masterfully he'd been staring at it so long – one last time for good measure, Jason spun on his heel and crossed the porch, bounding down the steps two at a time.

He was barely clear of the platform, though, when he heard the door swing open in a rush, footsteps meeting the wooden floorboards with quiet fervour.

He didn't want to stop.

"Jason – come inside."

If it was said with anymore force it would be a blatant command, and any more emotion would turn it into a desperate whine.

As it was, it was just…_Dick_.

…Naturally.

"Can't," he said shortly, not stopping, not turning, not looking back. Concealed in the pockets of his faded jeans, Jason's fingers curled into fists. Figured Dickiebird would wait until he was ready to _leave_ before inviting him in.

Probably the golden child had been watching him from inside the entire time. Probably didn't want to be…_overbearing_. Wanted to take Jason's _'feelings'_ into consideration, allow him to make up his own mind, pick his own choice—

Only, it apparently didn't agree with _Dickie's_ choice for him.

"'Can't'?" the older man echoed, feather-light steps on the stairs, easy strides in the wake of Jason's heavy footfalls, but Dick didn't pass or come up to him. "But you've already been here an hour!"

Shit. Had it really been that long?

_Shit._

"Yeah, and that's all the time I got," he said gruffly, feebly quickening his pace – Dick kept up with him easily.

Somehow the distance to the gates – to his _freedom_ – at the edge of the grounds seemed so much farther than when he'd ventured the trip in the other direction.

"_Seriously_, Jason?" there was a hint of exasperation in his brother's tone now, but it only served to aggravate Jason a little more. "That's it? You came all the way over here just to loiter on the doorstep?"

_No. _No, not _just_ to loiter. To loiter, and then _leave_.

The hell kind of person actually _says_ 'loiter' anyway? It's used for window signs to confuse and annoy all the people standing around trying to figure out what it is they're _not_ supposed to do, because nobody actually knows the _meaning_ of the word.

Must be _'No Littering'_ – somebody should fix that.

Jason bristled, came to an abrupt halt and spun round with a finger raised at the shorter man.

Forget 'loitering'.

It grated how true that sounded.

It grated how much it sounded like his own admonition from earlier.

It grated how he couldn't be certain it was Dick sounding like his head, or his head starting to sound like Golden Boy.

It grated to realize he actually _agreed_ with the _wonder_ of Boy Wonders.

Fuck it all.

"Screw you, Grayson," Jason snapped, Dick halting mid-pace at Jason's sudden invasion of his personal space. "If you wanted me inside you should have opened the damn door and said so!"

"I _did_!" but Jason had already turned about and started his march to the gates anew.

There was no missing the indignation in Dick's tone, even though he'd managed to give whatever expression accompanied it a miss.

His brother was paler than he remembered, he'd noticed.

His hair was longer, scragglier. His eyes seemed brighter. Somehow, _bluer_, if that was possible.

It made for a sharp contrast against the ghostly white of his skin, his chapped lips; even the circles under his eyes seemed a _faded_ shadow, somehow.

…

The leather of his gloves clenched and squealed in protest as Jason tightened his fingers.

What – was Dickie _sick_…?

…

No.

He couldn't _care_ less.

…

"Yeah, only when you saw me leave," he shot over his shoulder, spiteful.

An aggravated huff came from behind, "I was hoping you'd knock, ring the bell – something!" So he _had_ been watching. Of course. _Ass_. "I wanted you to. I didn't _want_ you to _leave_, Jay—"

"Well, then you shouldn't have _let me_," the argument suddenly sounded very _petty_ to Jason's ears, even as the remark seemed to sting – _him_. And why the hell should it sting?!

"Well is that what you wanted? For me to open the door and _force_ you inside? You wouldn't have been pissed and yelling at me _then_?"

_Oh no, Dick Grayson. Golden Boy doesn't get to do that. Not this time._

Dick was not going to turn this around like he was the bad guy here (because generally Jason liked to think he was at least _decent_, if not good, and certainly not _all_ bad – the world was filled with worse scum, and he was doing it a favour by getting rid of them. So there. Not bad.).

Jason stopped a second time to give his brother a piece of his mind, "Oh, go f—" a pretty expletive on the tip of his tongue when his eye caught sight of the halfway opened front door beyond Dick's shoulder, a glimpse of black and white and a sliver of silver in the entryway, hovering in quiet observation. "—_Away_, Grayson," he amended, having no desire to incur the figure's wrath, though it left his retort with a lot less bite than intended.

The figure disappeared. Dick blinked. Jason scowled.

His older brother's brows knit together, lips curling into a disapproving frown – the entire expression making him seem young and adorable, and more dangerous for it. Jason had a moment to wonder if the villains of Gotham ever cooed over Robin's expressions when Dick had been the one in the hot-pants.

Harley and Poison Ivy, probably. Catwoman almost definitely – you had to adore the Robin if you wanted…under the Bat's cape.

Heh.

"I _live_ here," Dick scowled, angry pink spots on his pale cheeks only accentuating the bleakness, as he waved a hand, almost in the direction of Jason's salvation. "_You_ go away."

"I've been _trying_!" Jason said, throwing up his hands, voice thick with frustration. "But – now that I have your permission," he added sarcastically, dipping into a mock bow on a whim, before he stepped back, regarded his older brother with a smirk and then turned away a second time.

There was a stunning, _painful_ moment of silence, before—

"Jason!"

Feather-light footfalls.

"_Jay_—" and this time Dick came right up to his back, planting a firm hand on his shoulder.

They stopped walking a third time.

It was only a few more strides to freedom.

_Damn it, Dick._

He made to shrug off the hand, but Dick's grip only tightened defiantly.

"The next time you find yourself pointlessly hanging out on the porch," Dick started before Jason could manage more than a breath, "And I'm not out in five minutes to haul your ass inside," that was a very serious, sincere, threat, if Dickie's tone was anything to go by. "It only means I haven't seen you yet. So…_knock_? Ring the bell? Just _come inside_." A beat. "Okay? …_Jason_?"

He was experiencing a flashback – emotionally, physically – of what it felt like to have a collapsed lung.

_That's too much to ask, Dick._

Jason had no idea anymore what had propelled him to walk all the way to the manor – if anything at all had in the first place.

Didn't know why he _loitered_ in front of the door.

Why it took him so long to leave.

Why he hadn't knocked.

Rung the bell.

Just went inside.

"Whatever," he snapped, without heat, but made more of an enthused effort to relieve his shoulder of Dick's offending hand.

His brother let him go. "I want you to promise me, Jay!"

No quietly echoing footfalls on his heels.

"Whatever."

And there it was – _finally_.

"I'm taking that as _your word_, Jason!"

Despite their impressive size and splendour, the delicate-looking curves of mirrored W's; the gates were _old_.

"Shouldn't do that."

Sweet freedom. It was chilly, the breeze nipping at his face.

"And I'm holding it against you if you break that promise!"

_Go back inside, Dickie…_

…

"Good-bye, Jay!"

…

"Bye, Dickie…"

He was too far away to be heard.

And too far away to hear, "Come home soon, Little Wing…"

The sun shone after all, on the way back to his safe-house.

It rained anyway.


	2. promises we did not make

**~promises we did not make~**

* * *

"You can choose your friends but you sho' can't choose your family, an' they're still kin to you no matter whether you acknowledge 'em or not, and it makes you look right silly when you don't."

― Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

* * *

Patches of clouds threaded across the sky were dark grey and heavy in winter, bleeding white and covering the world below in a mass of pale flakes.

In spring, similar clouds cried sheets of rain, the picture of smeared grey paint left running down the canvas.

It had much the same appearance in the fall, only looking drearier, what with the barren, lifeless, leafless world below instead of green, flowery springtime groves.

Even in summer the clouds never _really_ went away completely, always grimly covering what would be a bright blue sky anywhere else.

A clear, sunny day was a rarity in Gotham – about as rare as Jason on the front porch of Wayne manor.

…

Well, damn.

A pair of rarities in one day.

The world must be ending somewhere.

Again.

It had been more than five minutes.

He'd counted the seconds out exactly.

And another minute just to be sure.

Then another, just in case.

He stopped counting sometime after that, his mind taking to debating instead.

Technically, he was under obligation.

To knock. Ring the doorbell. _Do_…something.

Eventually he had his hand raised at the door, knuckles poised to rap politely across the wood, for another five minutes – by the drumbeat of his heart.

Maybe if he did it really, _really_ quietly, he could get away with honestly saying he had, like he never promised he would, but no one had heard, like he didn't want them to.

So he'd gone on his merry way, earnest in his belief that no one had been home.

Couldn't hold that against him, right?

He'd have knocked.

It wouldn't be his fault.

…

…

Dammit, this wasn't fair.

He hadn't _actually_ promised. He _hadn't_.

But Jason was nothing if not honest, at least – sometimes, _mostly_, about the things that counted – and cheating like that would be dishonesty.

It would gnaw at his gut though it had no right to, because _damn it all to hell_, he _hadn't actually made that promise_ – but it was still best he just not knock in any way, shape or form, turn on his heel, and _damn well just left already_.

He could throw the unmade promise back in his wannabe brother's face if he ever bitched about it, and feel bad _later_ when Dick's deflated expression was a distant memory.

And it wasn't cowardice either – don't even think it. Jason Todd was no coward.

But he was no fool either.

A whole host of dangers lay beyond those broad wooden doors.

The kind that messed with your mind.

Shit Jason had no need of.

Scowling, mostly at himself, and only vaguely aware of a sense of déjà vu, he'd just turned to leave like he should have done over half an hour ago, when the door opened a crack.

He had the presence of mind – somehow – to actually look at who it was before he opened his mouth to snap.

If it were Dick, which was what he'd assumed on impulse, his self-proclaimed older brother was going to hear the sharp side of his tongue and then some.

While still in much the same vein and frame of mind, it would still be an entirely different verbal-whooping if it had been a certain _other_ person.

But he caught himself in time with a reprimand that if it were Alfred, he had no desire to scream and spit in the old butler's face – and, not only because he wouldn't deserve it.

Jason would be drinking milk for a week trying to quell the hellfire dancing on his tongue – he'd be deserving of it, too – there were more than a few choice words, all _pretty_, in the arguments he'd mentally prepared for both aforementioned men.

Okay, "prepared" was a bit of a stretch – it's not like he sits around in his safe-houses memorising lines and thinking up counter-arguments and reasonable comebacks in case he gets into a verbal sparring match with either of them.

He really doesn't…

…

They just somehow find their way into his head and won't _go away_, that's all.

…

He tries really hard to forget those lines, too.

And the feelings converging on his chest, making it hard to breathe, or think…or _hear_ – _anything_, but the screams, and the shouting, and the arguing – and the _crying_ – and every angry word he wants to throw in their faces _so damn badly_.

…

He doesn't know any more if it's because that's what he really _feels_ – still – or does it linger because he hasn't said it…is he saving them for an opportune moment – because imagining the expressions on their faces won't compare to the real thing…?

…And he _wants to see that_.

…

…

Ugh, _no_.

…

More often than not he feels…—_anxious_, that he really will throw up all the shit in his head – at Dickie, at _him_, at…even at the kid in the doorway.

He bites down on his tongue, he swallows the words, because…he _wants_, even more, to believe – like Alfred – they don't deserve it after all.

He's just being—

_Never mind_.

He's not _that_.

"Jason…?"

As it turned out, it wasn't any of the three older men in his—

…

…_not-family_, who'd come to the door, though.

Not Dickiebird, with the idiot-grin Jason wouldn't admit to _wanting_ to see on his face at the sight of his younger brother.

Not…

…

And thank whatever deity for _that_.

And not Alfred, who conveyed just as much emotion in a single glance than either of the aforementioned – or _un_mentioned – only with much more decorum. And while Jason could not pretend to mind facing that one, he could neither deny he wasn't grateful he didn't _need_ to right now, after all. He didn't think he _could_, yet.

The kid peered up at Jason with narrowed eyes, sounding…wary? – probably scared he'd get gutted with a knife.

Jason wasn't sure whether to be flattered or annoyed.

Though he hadn't opened the door all the way, Tim filled in the small space between the two front doors with a guarded, almost territorial air of confidence even as he hid nothing of himself – apart, though, from his right arm still behind the door.

For a moment Jason wondered if Tim had his bo-staff in that hand…

Jason narrowed his eyes, snapped from a half-second surprise at seeing the kid – didn't he have his own digs nowadays? Back with Daddy-Bats then (like Dickie?) – and settled on feeling annoyed, after all, at the boy's tone.

_Wary_, like Jason was there to hurt someone (granted, it was early yet, he might still slip into the notion – but there was no reason to be so damn obvious about it).

…

_Concerned_, like he'd read a wrongness on Jason's face (_well_, now).

And that was unsettling.

There was nothing wrong, except that he was _here_. But, ignoring the concern and instead indulging in the kid's wariness, Jason stuck his hands in his pockets, turned back to face him properly and fixed Tim's blue eyes with a glare.

"Replacement," he scathed appropriately.

Tim blinked, and then scowled, made to say something, but Jason cut him off.

"Where's Dick?"

"Out," he said shortly, and Jason pursed his lips in mock consideration, nodded a little.

"Oh."

He'd spied Nightwing jumping rooftops beyond the borderline of his territory a few times the last couple months.

A right spring-chicken after whatever bout of illness had had him under the weather; looking sickly and sleep-deprived when they last met in civvies…

…Dickie stealing promises Jason had had no intention of keeping.

And he hadn't, after all.

"Is that all?" Tim asked, bordering on impatient.

Jason nodded, but made no move to leave, still spiteful. "Pretty much."

When the silence dragged on he was tempted to start counting seconds again, but Tim cut him off.

"You're still on the porch."

"Free country."

"Private property!"

Jason looked back at the kid, having let his gaze wander, seemingly unperturbed, "Well, if you'd been paying attention before, _Pretender_," he spat. "I _was_ actually on my way."

Not waiting for an answer he spun about, intent on marching back to his freedom beyond the gates, only to pause in his step once more.

"Uh – w-wait!"

Tim sounded…_determined_, in his uncertainty.

Which was weird.

So Jason turned back. Tim had stepped forward, one foot in the space between in and out, a hand raised, the other still hidden.

"Uh…" he settled back when Jason seemed to be staying, the tenseness in his frame slowly fading, making him seem…_smaller_.

A lot of things made Tim seem smaller.

Tim. Timmers. Timmy-kins.

Little Timmy.

Ill-equipped for this.

Timmy.

Timmy, Timmy, Timmy.

Jason had a knot in his stomach waiting to hear about another Joker incident and Timmy blown to smithereens.

He wasn't wishing it on the kid. Just didn't know how to prevent it.

"It's, um, hot out here, and Alfred—" Timmy started talking, faster at every second word, as he turned, off to his left, his bo-staff wielding hand finally making a brief appearance – Jason tensed involuntarily, inexplicably expecting a blow that never came.

Instead, the kid leaned over beyond the second, still shut door, where Jason couldn't see, towards – a table? There was a table there, right? With a phone, maybe, or…books?

He…

…

…couldn't remember—

Next moment Timmy was presenting Jason with a glass. Holding it around the rim with his pale fingertips, nails neatly trimmed. He was still talking all the while, "—thought you might like some to cool you down…"

No response.

"It's…freshly squeezed…" had the vague lilt of an inviting question, and Timmy shrugged.

But Jason had his eyes on the neatly wrapped bandages around the boy's wrist, peeking out from under the wrist-guard that was bunching his fingers up together.

"And, you know…it's hot…" Timmy repeated.

Like a hypocrite, Jason was dressed in his practically patented leather jacket – never mind the heat – with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his collar turned down, but it would hardly take a genius to squint close enough and recognize it as the Red Hood's.

It was a stupid move, for obvious reasons, and if it were Dick in the doorway he'd be giving Jason an earful much like a younger second Robin had judged Dick's thankfully short-lived ponytail-phase.

Beyond the impracticality of the thing, it had been such an eyesore anyone seeing it would remember whether they wanted to or not, and Dick Grayson would suddenly find himself yanked back by the hair by one of Nightwing's enemies.

Moreover, the jacket really _was_ contributing to the heat never mind his pale red shirt underneath was thin and barely had any sleeves to speak of.

His jeans were thick and his boots were stuffy, too.

Maybe his hair needed a trim round the ears, down his neck. Just a little.

All in all, the makings of a hot, sweaty mess.

Alfred's freshly squeezed – lemonade? Timmy hadn't specified – could only improve his temperature and potentially prevent spontaneous combustion.

But Jason was still eyeing the injury a second or two too long, only snapping out of it when Timmy – seemingly awkwardly – shifted his weight, briefly glanced away.

Jason snatched the glass from Timmy's fingers perhaps more roughly than he'd meant, but, despite the warmth of his attire, he sought no refreshment from the coolness against his palm.

Timmy had noticed his inadvertent staring – of course – and, relieved of the glass, drew his wrist close and touched his free fingers to it as he – needlessly, because, dammit, Jason _didn't care_ – offered an explanation,

"Landed badly dodging a hit the other night – not enough room in the alley. It's hardly even a sprain, really," he shrugged, nonchalant. "But, you know Alfred," he smiled, a little subdued though it was, only half-met Jason's eyes, "Better safe than sorry…"

"Hm."

Alley. The other night.

On the edge of Jason's turf.

He'd spied Red Robin leaving the scene of a potential drug exchange – would-be buyers zipped-up tight and left for pick-up, sirens blaring in the distance.

He'd had a guy down there himself, for intel mostly, since there was little known about the new merchandise – rumoured to be more expensive than anything else and lethal besides.

Not a high, but a poison instead.

Jason needed confirmation before he could decide how to handle it.

Buyers were useless for info, seller had gotten away – Jason's guy too, of course, Red Robin none the wiser. But it hadn't helped Jason any.

Absently he wondered if that was his excuse for coming down to the manor this time – exchange notes with the red bird since they were obviously working the same case on opposite ends of town.

…

No, that wasn't it.

He hadn't come to see Timmy, after all.

He was looking for Dick.

Looking to see if his pretend older brother would make good on _his_ promise to haul Jason's ass across the threshold within five minutes of his loitering.

…

…

Apparently he'd picked a bad day for it.

…

Timmy stood looking at his wrist, Jason at the condensation around the glass in his hand, for almost another full minute before they both made to speak—

Timmy was quicker, "You could come i—"

"No."

He was glaring at the kid, just out of reflex, but apparently his successor was made of stronger stuff because he didn't back down, "But – come on, you can't stay on the porch all day—"

"That's why I'm leaving," he held the still-full glass for Timmy to take, but the younger teenager made no move except to briefly scowl at it.

He'd have said something more, probably, if Jason hadn't offered kindly, "This goes in your hand or over your head. Pick."

"Ugh. _Jason_," hand then. He sounded exasperated, but Jason—_Didn't_. _Care_.

He turned right around, sweaty palm returned to the pocket of his jeans as he sauntered off – scowling ahead when Timmy followed (the drink abandoned on the porch with a quiet _clink_ as it was set down).

"Jason – seriously—"

Jason quickened his pace.

Kid kept up effortlessly – kept up the yapping, too.

"We wouldn't mind—"

_I would. I do, in fact._

"I-I wouldn't mind—"

Though fleetingly, he _did_ ponder taking the kid up on that invitation after all, just to show him why he _should_, in fact, be minding too.

"And Alfred would like to see you, and when Dick gets back he'd be ecstatic—"

Jason snorted, just on principle.

"And," _hesitation_. Part of him saw it coming. The other part was refusing to even think or acknowledge or mentally have anything to do with _him_, so of course that was the part that reacted – and badly.

"Bruce—"

Timmy's real mistake – because hearing the name he could still potentially ignore, but – was putting his hand on Jason's shoulder as though to halt him.

Jason stopped, whirled around, snatching the offending limb even as the kid actually let him go, "_Enough!_" he snarled, low and feral, his fingers squeezing, twisting as he turned, "Just _shut u—_"

"_Argh—!_"

Jason's words drowned out with the sound and he released Timmy's wrist at once. The boy's left hand clutched at it reflexively as his breath hitched, caught audibly in his throat, his expression pinched with pain.

"_Crap_, Timmy, I'm sorry," Jason panicked, rushing closer like he wasn't already close enough, hands hovering without purpose, "I forgot, I—" he cut himself off abruptly, brain catching up.

He couldn't do more than stare, though.

The kid was breathing out slowly, controlling the pain in whatever measure he could manage, just like the Bat had taught him.

Now a hero in his own right though, just like Nightwing, Red Robin probably had more tricks up his sleeve than the usual for managing his pain, so when the kid raised his head, however slowly it was, peering at Jason through his dark bangs, there was no more trace of hurt – only surprise. A little disbelief in those blue eyes.

(Still, if the wrist wasn't _sprained_ before, it certainly was now, if not _worse_)

"You called me '_Timmy'_," he breathed, barely audible.

Jason shook his head, stupidly, face burning.

Regaining his senses, he straightened abruptly, glaring daggers at the Replacement.

Pretender almost looked…_sad_? at the change. Like Dick would.

Well, screw them both.

Screw all this shit.

Shit he _did not need_.

He whipped about and all but ran to the gates, eyes fixed on the stylized W's adorning the portal to his escape.

"Ja—"

It sounded like "Jay". Like his nickname.

But of course Jason knew that wasn't it – Replacement had only stopped himself, realising it wouldn't matter if he called. Jason was leaving, and that was _It_.

He wasn't coming back, either. He'd wasted enough hours perched on a porch where he knew – he _knew, dammit_ – he didn't want to be.

Inexplicable, then, the way he glanced back at the Replacement – only to glare? – unable to hear or see the younger boy's feeble "_I'm sorry, Jay_."

His cheeks were still on fire as he left the manor behind – the heat in his neck, on the tips of his ears, and burning in his chest to rival the blazing sun overhead.

Anger. Made his hands shake.

He shed his jacket somewhere along the way, clutched it in one white-knuckled hand.

Its absence brought little relief, though.

Every continued step still drenched him further in sweat – his shirt sticking to his fever-hot skin.

Every heartbeat echoed a throbbing already loud in his head, nursing it affectionately, encouraging it to pound quicker and quicker.

Still, he _needed_, desperately, to be gone from there, as far away as possible.

So he kept up the pace, heated beneath his sweat-slick skin, pained in the head and sick to his stomach.


	3. interlude: devout hopefulness

_A/N:  
_Interludes are chapters written from, or including, other characters' POVs, not just Jason's.

* * *

**~devout hopefulness~  
**

* * *

"Losing the possibility of something is the exact same thing as losing hope and without hope nothing can survive."

― Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves

* * *

"'Low' …No.

"'Loo' …?

"'Loo-ee.'

"'Loo-ee… T.

"'Loo-eat'?

"'Loo-eat-er'?

"'Lweter.'

"'Leat'…

"L… 'Low'…

"Ngh…_no_."

"Cass."

"I…do not know. This? _This_."

"'Loiter'." Tim supplied helpfully, looking up from the laptop balanced on his crossed knees to find the word Cass was pointing at where she held the book over the back of the couch for him to see.

"'Loi.' …'Loi'?"

He nodded encouragingly.

"'Loi…ter'?" she tested it slowly, and Tim smiled.

"'Loiter,'" she repeated with a satisfied nod and raised the book back to a comfortable eye-level. Tim returned to his research as she resumed her pacing, only to interrupt him again two strides on. "What…does it mean?"

Tim opened his mouth to reply, only for Dick to beat him to it.

"It's that thing Jason's been doing for the past hour," he said derisively, from his spot next to the almost wall-length window. "Out on the porch. Just _standing there_."

Tim watched his older brother's back, eyebrows raised, "He's _still_ out there?"

They'd plopped down on sofas in the lounge over an hour ago with varying tasks of importance – Cass practising her reading, Tim researching his latest case (hacked into the Bat-computer downstairs through his laptop) – for Dick's benefit.

He'd caught a nasty cold during the winter and it had carried over into spring. Gotham's generally chilly climate probably wasn't helping his recovery any, but he _was_ making better progress in Alfred's care than he would have in New York by himself.

Tim suspected Dick was actually enjoying the excuse to be at the manor, anyway – and loving it even more that his younger siblings were staying over to help him recover. And to keep him company.

Dick didn't do cooped-up very well, and the four walls of his bedroom had started closing in despite the almost ever-present company. In search of a change of scenery thus, and only _after_ Alfred's permission of course, they'd moved down to the lounge just off to the side from the foyer.

Lengthy wide windows provided a view of the front yard and the gates in the distance – as well as the porch if you stood just right in front of them, or had been bundled up on the armchair nearest the windows, generally facing the rest of the room, like Dick had been. Tim had turned the seat a little for him, for a better view of the grounds, and had taken a corner of the couch facing the windows for himself, Cass pacing at his back.

The older man had sat gaping for almost a full minute before Tim and Cass had looked up from their respective tasks to notice.

Dick hadn't believed his eyes, and, pushing blankets aside he'd wandered to the windows in what Tim could only describe as a _trance_.

"Dick?" he'd asked, alarmed, but Dick in his mesmerized state hadn't even heard. He nearly pressed his nose against the window, through the lace curtain, to see.

"Dick!" Tim had snapped, bounding up from his seat and rushing to his brother's side, wondering if they'd misdiagnosed him or something. Was his fever up again – was he hallucinating something? "What is it—?" Tim started, grabbing hold of Dick's arm with both hands, head whipping round to look through the window as well—

His breath caught when he saw him.

"Jason." Cassandra declared needlessly from just behind them, watching the younger boy from between Tim and Dick's heads. She'd never actually seen him before – not in the flesh.

She'd left for Hong Kong before he revealed himself resurrected and…slightly insane, the way Tim told the story, but…watching him now, she could hardly believe it was the same boy on their porch Tim had been talking about.

He seemed more…_broken_, than anything else.

The anger Tim had described was still there, plainly present if residing just beneath the surface now, but…the malice, the vengeance, the _blood-thirst_ Cassandra had imagined in him to match the stories she'd heard was…_strikingly absent_.

Perhaps, if she squinted, she could see where those empty spaces were, where once her imaginings had resided, after all.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Tim's voice had been fierce, if somewhat strained, his words a mumble through grit teeth, and his grip on Dick's arm tightening slightly.

It snapped the young man from his bewildered state – he'd thought it a trick of the light, figured he was only tired, when he saw the younger boy coming up the driveway, but…the closer he came, looking so…Dick could only describe it as "_lost_" – the more Dick believed he was real, and believed he _really was_ seeing things all at the same time.

A side-effect of his medicine maybe?

Should he be asking Timmy if he was seeing it, too?

A bubble of joy had threatened to pop in the pit of his stomach and it took every _ounce_ of his being to stop it surging through him and bursting free elatedly – this was almost too good to be true.

He was sick. _Definitely_ sick. In the head.

Only, Timmy _had_ seen him, too, wondering aloud why the hell he was there.

The thought had crossed Dick's mind as well, and would again over the course of the hour, but he'd pushed it aside initially, to marvel some more at the seemingly impossible fact that his little brother was home.

His little brother _was home_.

And, _of his own volition_.

'What the hell' was right.

"Timmy," Dick had said, Tim relinquishing his hold on Dick's arm when the older man moved, wrapping the limb about Tim's shoulders instead. "It's okay. He's not here to hurt us. Maybe he just…" Dick had waved his free hand through the air as if to snatch up the right words in passing, only there weren't any.

"He's…not doing anything," Cass had observed with a frown, "Not…_planning_ on doing anything…"

"Maybe we should—" Dick had started, moving as he spoke, hands on Tim's shoulders, making to go around him to the foyer, to the front door – only to cut himself off when he saw Alfred through the doorway.

Weathered old hand raised at the doorknob, the other pressed properly against the small of his back. Eyes shut, the old man had sighed, _resigned_, before his hand retreated, was clasped firmly about the wrist with long, calloused fingers instead.

He'd turned, _set_ in his task, and made his way from the room, his back to them, headed perhaps for the kitchen. Head still bowed.

Dick's shoulders had slumped.

Tim had noticed the butler as well, "What – we're just leaving him out there?" Dick didn't know if that was incredulity or indignation.

"Maybe we should—" he'd meant to suggest something specific, but in fact, "…Maybe we _should_. Jason…he'll _knock_, or…something, when he's ready. We shouldn't force him into it. He's made it this far on his own, we should respect whatever he decides to do now," but Dick had sounded decidedly pitiful to Tim's ears and like he wanted nothing _more_ than to decide _for_ Jason. "Whatever _he decides_," he'd added in a whisper.

Tim had stared at him, a little at a loss for words. Dick had patted his shoulders absently then shuffled back to his chair, snuggled up and kept his gaze on the window.

Tim had followed his movements with a frown, shot a wary scowl out the window, and retreated to his laptop once again.

Dick stayed silent. Cass returned to her muttered reading as she paced up and down in front of the room-wide bookcase, occasionally climbing the sliding ladder to pick a different paperback for perusal. Tim was so caught up in his research; he hadn't even noticed Dick getting up to go back to the window again.

How long had he been standing there?

The lack of pounding against the front door, or a ringing bell, or angered yelling, or a myriad of echoing gunshots, had Tim of a mind that his supposed-to-be older brother had left the estate. But…apparently not so much.

"Loiter…" Cass leaned over the back of the couch, next to Tim, her eyes on Dick as well. The word had the lilt of a question at the end, but she realised it was wrong and added, "—ing?"

"Apparently," Tim replied, deadpan, as he set the laptop aside once more and stood.

Joining Dick by the window, he crossed his arms.

Jason stood in virtually the same position as before. Definitely loitering.

"This is ridiculous," Tim commented, shaking his head. What was Jason thinking?

"He's…leaving," Cass mumbled at their backs again, and Tim narrowed his eyes.

Indeed, not a moment later Jason had turned on his heel.

"Leaving," Dick echoed, distressed, and bolted from the room at once, barely pausing to snap at Tim, "Don't stop me, Timmy," when the younger boy tried calling him back.

Dick had the door flung open before Jason had properly reached the steps.

"Jason – come inside," Tim heard, and shrunk into himself, crossed arms tightening, a little. Frozen beside the window, he watched with a scowl as Dick followed their wayward "sibling" down the way, the front door swinging shut almost inaudibly behind him.

"You do not think he will…_hurt_ Dick," Cass had taken up Dick's vacant spot to Tim's right. It wasn't a question, but he shook his head slightly and answered anyway.

"No, he…if he wanted us hurt he wouldn't have just stood on the porch for an hour, I…think," he sighed, deflated. "I don't know. Jason…" an exasperated noise escaped him, he couldn't explain it.

Cass nodded a little though – of course she'd understand. Somewhat, at least.

"But…you're still…tense?"

Tim sighed again, trying to relax, "I just…don't trust him, I guess. Not after everything."

"Dick…trusts him, though."

"Dick's…too soft," Tim mumbled, barely audibly, not sure if he really believed that. It wasn't that it was a bad thing about his brother, either – being 'soft.'

Dick cared – _immensely_. About everyone. Even the ones who didn't seem to deserve it – the misguided ones, like Jason, and the ones who didn't know better and didn't seem to care to…like, Damian.

But Tim…_couldn't_ quite seem to. Couldn't bring himself to care so devotedly, unconditionally, without judgment, or ridicule, and without _expecting_ to be betrayed.

Don't get him wrong – Tim did care, _that way_, for a lot of people – Dick, and Cass, and Bruce, Alfred, Steph—

But Jason…didn't _deserve_ that kind of love, and Tim simply couldn't give it away so freely – was baffled by Dick's ability to and felt…_lesser_, for his inability to manage it, too. Maybe a little envious of Dick, even.

But Tim saw no logic behind it – it was all emotional, intuitive acrobat, it was just—_Dick_.

All _logic_, all _reason_, pointed at Jason simply betraying their trust first chance he got if not only when it suited his agenda, taking advantage of Dick's devoted attempts at coaxing him back into the family, and blowing it up in their eldest brother's face – _again_.

_That_ was why Tim was tense.

Tim wasn't afraid of Jason, but he _was_ scared by him. The lengths he went to. The boundaries he pushed. The things he _did_. Almost unspeakable, unthinkable things that spoke of a madman's misguided crusade for unfounded revenge.

…

Well—_mostly_, unfounded.

Bruce was _constant_ – Jason shouldn't have _expected_ to find the Joker buried.

As for Tim…well, Batman _needed_ a Robin. It had been part dream-come-true, part occupation, part _duty_, more than anything else. As the boy who'd been watching them – _Bruce_ – fall to pieces, he _couldn't _just_ stand aside_ and _let it happen_. He'd thought…part of him had thought Jason wouldn't have wanted that – wanted his…_father_, to break like that.

But all Jason saw was a pale imitation of who he'd been – a sorry excuse for a substitute to the partner Batman had lost. A damn…_replacement_.

Part of Tim had never meant to stay, would have easily stepped aside for Jason, but…Jason had never even given Tim a chance to explain.

He was surprised to discover how much that _stung_.

This was some sort of trick – Jason just showing up like this. It _had to be_.

"He's…_broken_," Cass's quiet proclamation cut through the silence, startling Tim from his thoughts and hastening his now-lowered gaze to the window. If Dick—

But…Cass wasn't alarmed, and, Tim realized, she hadn't been referring to Dick.

He blinked, watching Jason – farther down the driveway now, headed for the gate even as Dick followed, hands gesturing as he spoke – and found he looked in perfect health.

"I don't—"

"Something is…_wrong_."

Tim glanced briefly at Cass with a pensive frown. Outside, Jason spun to face Dick (a second time), an angry expression on his impossibly youthful face. If Tim didn't know any better, he'd have pegged Jason at the same age as himself. A side-effect of the Pit.

Along with the madness. If something was wrong—

Tim shifted his weight, ready to sprint out there if needed—

But, looking at the exit, he saw Alfred in the foyer again, front door slightly ajar as he peered out.

Fleetingly Tim wondered how much Alfred had wanted to invite Jason inside before. How much he wanted to berate Dick for being outside, and call the both of them back in…

Alfred was not a fool man – if he still believed in Jason…

Or, maybe…maybe in this one regard, Alfred _was_ being foolhardy.

The old man closed the door and Tim turned quickly back to the window less he was caught staring, in time to watch Dick wave a hand and Jason throw up his own, clearly exasperated. He bowed a mocking little bow before he smirked and turned away.

Dick let him go – if only for a beat, before he rushed after his other brother, clamping a firm – and probably unwelcome – hand onto his shoulder.

…

"What do you mean 'wrong'?" Tim asked.

Several beats passed as Tim let her gather her words. If he was ever going to learn the truth about Jason's intentions, his state of mind – his _sanity_, even – this was it.

"He's…confused," she said at last, voice quiet, tone filled with…sympathy. "He came…_home_," she emphasized, and Tim spared her a glance, but he could hardly read her expression. "Only…to _realize_ this is no longer…home. He is…unwelcome. And then – _now_…he does not know…where to go. He wants to…stay. But…can't. Knows…he can't.

"It…hurts," her voice had dropped into a breathy whisper. "It's…_painful_," she turned her gaze from the window, eyes narrowed at the floor instead, "To watch."

Tim stared, a little wide-eyed, not at all certain about how to react to that.

Jason had thought…this was home? He thought he still lived here? Was that what she meant?

…Until he came up to the door and realized it wasn't true anymore.

Tim couldn't imagine.

Absently, he shook his head. This…_made no sense_.

When Dick shuffled back into the room, he looked…forlorn. More ill than before he'd left.

"Master Dick," Alfred appeared over his shoulder to escort him back to bed before Tim could offer the same. Dick nodded, dragging his blanket off the armchair and wrapping it round his shoulders.

"Good idea, Alfie," he passed by Cass, and Tim, planting a kiss atop each of their heads, smile a little wan but present.

He paused in the doorway to look back at them.

He'd tell them all about it later, and he'd ask Cass what she thought of their lost brother, too – _after_ a well-deserved nap.

In the meantime, though, "He'll be back," he promised them.


	4. the need to know (prt 1)

**~the need to know~  
**

* * *

"Real courage is when you know you're licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what."

― Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

* * *

The ever-increasingly cold breeze nipped at the sides of his face, combed his fringe back from his forehead – a blur of white tipped black in and out of his peripheral like a phantom, a spectre only there when he wasn't looking – as he marched up the driveway, fists clenched at his sides, steps determined and unfaltering.

By the time he'd reached the ornate gates and pushed them aside, he'd stopped thinking up excuses with which to explain his presence to whoever opened the door.

Not for the first time either, did he find the ease with which the gates parted for him suspicious, and in the same vein he shoved the thought aside, again, no desire to dig too deeply into what _that_ might suggest.

Just as before.

And before…

Only one purpose stuck at the forefront of his mind as he trudged up the way, eyes focused on the looming wooden doors of the manor – imposing and impressive.

For the first time it occurred to him that, he'd never been as in awe of the manor as he might have been – by the time he saw the outside of it, glittering windows in the sparse Gotham sunlight, big brown doors, balconies and dense, flowering shrubs, sprouting creepy crawlies like veins up the walls, he'd already spent a night inside.

He'd never glimpsed the splendour from afar and paused, gaping up at its grey stone walls, stunned to silence by its majesty. Not only for the look of it, either, but for the legacy it carried.

Jason could actually respect the latter. Could understand the origin of the daunting weight settling on his shoulders whenever he approached the estate and had to look up to see the high rooftop, the castle-like cornices adorning the manor like a crown.

He had to wonder if he was the only one under the invisible pressure – as the lowest, most unforgivable, treacherous, wayward son, adopted though he'd been, of Wayne there was?

Were a million Wayne-eyes, ghostly apparitions in the windows, trained on him whenever he sauntered down the driveway – piercing gazes narrowed, judging, disapproving of him, and wishing him away by sheer force of will?

Perhaps that was why he loitered, rebellious by nature – a nature not of theirs – to taunt them back? To shuck off the heavy weight of their gazes and drop it at their own doorstep, only to stay defiant in their sights as long as he could manage rather than skip away, lighter than before, or enter, even, into their midst, free of their scorn – but – where they could not see him anymore…?

What was a rebellion worth when no one was looking?

That was only a rambunctious child playing pretend by himself.

Jason was no longer a child.

…

He did not come to be defiant, either, though.

Not this time.

It was his own fault he was so out of the loop.

He'd spent the last few weeks in a safe-house, perfectly determined not to set foot outside, where the world was steadily turning shades of molten gold and yellow ochre, deep dark brown, burnt umber and bright orange tinged red against a backdrop of dreary forever-grey.

Only when he could finally hold it no longer – a desperate, burning desire to _know_ a fire kindled in his belly – and it was plain they were never going to find him, he was too well-hidden – and they, perchance, too busy to try – did he at last leave the safety of his nest, determined in his task.

He had to know.

He had to _know_.

If they'd been too late.

If they'd _been_ at all.

If all his effort had been in vain.

He could _feel _the hope inside, wishing it hadn't been for nothing, though he had no courage to voice it or even properly _think_ it.

Jason couldn't dare to hope.

Not when it involved _him_.

There had been no hope for Jason himself, after all – in a warehouse, a gazillion miles from home, bruised, broken and bloodied. Betrayed.

…A lot of b's going on.

…

—_Shit_.

When had it become a joke?

Fuck.

That had been the entire _point_ though, hadn't it? To be _funny_.

_Hopelessly_ _funny_.

Why would this time be any different?

Why would there be any hope for the Repla—

—but.

Fuck.

He didn't want to think like _that_, either.

Best to just not think at all.

Better simply to act.

He was good at that. Impulsive, sure – on occasion, he wouldn't deny. But, more often than not he liked to consider himself a _bit_ of a strategist.

He liked to plan it out. Assess the situation.

Contemplate every possible route.

Weigh one outcome against another. Evaluate the consequences.

Pick a path.

It only ever _seemed_ impulsive, to everyone else.

Except when it actually _was_.

Maybe this had been, just a little.

Because shit. He was _thinking_ about it now – wavering.

He stopped abruptly, hand raised inches from the door, frozen more than halfway through a motion that would have undoubtedly caused a hollow echo reverberating through the halls inside.

He very suddenly found it hard to breathe – consequences flitting through his mind, a sickening fear spreading its fingers through the fiery _want_ to _know_, oddly unafraid of the flames, seeming instead immune and intent on smothering them.

What the hell was he doing?

Almost thankfully, he was spared having to answer that thought, when the door to his right – not the one beyond his raised left fist – swung unexpectedly open.

For fuck's sake he actually _jumped_.

A _little_, dammit.

Only a little – and why the hell not? He was on edge. Even fucking _Nightwing_ would've pissed his panties. Probably.

"Barbie," he very nearly _croaked_, his throat was so dry.

Not that she was any kind of Barbie-doll – in the sense of long-legged and tanned (though she had been that before, still kind of was), platinum blonde and baby blue-eyed with a red-lipped smile and a freaky fashion fetish for all things neon pink.

The nickname just kind of fell off his lips, habit now more than anything else because he knew it annoyed her – or maybe it was just the _way_ he always said it – plainly spiteful and obnoxious – because at present, she didn't have her eyes narrowed at him, no twitch at the corner of her – sometimes red, actually – lips in response to his address, which had been decidedly devoid of the usual tone.

Part of him was a little _too_ surprised to see her, because he actually hadn't – not like this – since his return from the literal grave.

In hindsight he should probably have expected her presence though – she shared in Dick's sentiments that they were all somehow _family_ in some form or another, though she'd never been considered a sister. You don't lock lips with your sisters, after all (—_Dick_).

The pointedly-being-ignored bubble of hope in Jason's chest swelled a little at Barbara's presence, naively thinking if she were here then probably Replacement was, too, and they had found the idiot, after all.

It was a fleeting feeling, however, because Jason noticed almost at once the swell around Barbara's – blue, in fact, and bespectacled – eyes, one part sleep-deprivation, one part resultant of too many tears, made doubly obvious by the red rims around those blue orbs, and little scarlet veins adding to the evidence of exhaustion as they criss-crossed their way through the white.

The bubble in his chest seemed fit to burst with strain – of fear and disappointment this time. Had they been too late? Had _he _been too late?

Was this Barbara mourning _another _dead Robin…? Had she come over to…comfort Grayson, probably, who would be a blubbering mess after losing another brother – and Alfred (_oh, Alfred)_, and…and Bruce.

Did his little—

Did his _replacement_ have a glass case with a tattered uniform to match his own?

What did _his_ plaque say?

_A Good Robin._

…

_Another Good Son._

Jason bristled, and then felt a little ashamed for it.

If Tim was dead – and it took every _ounce_ of his being to not just assume the worst based on Barbara's eyes alone – well, then…

_Shit_.

And being jealous would be petty.

"Jason," she said, and Barbara's tone was a practised calm. Jason realised she'd sat there for all of ten seconds before she'd spoken.

_Sat_. There.

Confined to her wheelchair.

…

Maybe that had been part of his surprise at seeing her, even though he'd known about it. Still.

Talia al'Ghul – Batman's baby-mommy and Jason's…whatever the hell she'd been (saviour, mentor, mother-figure, friend, person-thing) – had kept Jason well-appraised of the Bat-family's fortunes and misfortunes once she'd dipped him in a healing Lazarus Pit that either returned his mind to its former – albeit teenage – glory, or screwed with his sanity – the toss was still up on that one.

It was how Jason first learned of his replacement. And of the new, suspiciously quiet Batgirl that resembled her mentor so much it was stomach-curdling – to anyone she crossed paths with anyway.

And, of course, of the Joker and his still-beating black heart, still-breathing lungs, even though he'd _murdered_ Batman's Robin – and then some.

There hadn't been any vengeance for Barbara either, though, granted, she hadn't _died_ like he had.

Still, Joker's bullet could very well have done more than to paralyse her. Jason had idly wondered at some point, if she had died as well, would Batman have been driven to revenge after all? At the loss of a second partner?

Would Commissioner Gordon have avenged his daughter if the Bat would not?

His daughter who also just happened to be Batgirl.

Would they have done it together – for his daughter, and for his long-dead son?

Would Babs have come back from the dead, too?

…Babs.

Dickiebird called her that.

_He_ might have lost it, Jason mused, if Joker had killed the always-assumed love of his life.

It would have broken him, afterward. Jason knew that much. Knew about Dick's reaction to the thought of Joker hurting Tim, and knew about his reaction to him hurting the Joker to the point he was _basically_ dead – if only briefly.

Dickiebird wouldn't survive another loss of control like that. He'd be drowning in _misplaced_ – because there'd be nothing guilty behind that madman getting what he deserves – guilt.

And _dammit_.

If Timmy was dead, Jason was doing it himself.

If Timmy was dead…Jason's eyes very fleetingly flickered to the second floor windows, as if he could see Dick standing there. In the middle of his room, fists clenched, lips twisted, teeth grit in a snarl – the picture of hopeless frustration, bound by the Bat's cruel, unfair sense of morality ingrained in the marrow of his bones.

_Don't fret so much, Dickie. I'll make sure at least _one _Robin gets the justice we all deserve._

"I assume you're here to see Tim."

"No," he answered at once, Barbara's voice snapping his gaze back to her and his thoughts from its morbid revenge-takings.

Her eyes did narrow at him then, lips thinning as she regarded him, and Jason cringed inwardly at the quickness of his answer.

"No," he repeated more slowly, more calmly. "I was just—" but no, he had no more excuses, but no desire to actually explain his presence either. "I don't want to see him," he settled on instead, firmly, because it was the truth.

He only wanted to know. He had no desire to see.

"Wait," he started, only just realising what he was saying – what she was saying. "Ti—the Replacement is…_here_?"

Barbara leaned back in her chair, fingers tapping at an armrest. She nodded slowly, after a second, ducked her head, "Yes."

There was very little relief in her tone. It sounded more ominous than anything else.

"And, he's…"

"Alive," she supplied, which told him absolutely nothing.

Nothing good, at least.

Their once more littlest bird was _not_ okay.

Jason's bubble of hope had disintegrated entirely.

"I…" he started into the silence. Kid wasn't dead, at least, but he wasn't alright either. Jason didn't need to know more than that. He _certainly_ didn't want a catalogue of the little bird's injuries – physical, mental, emotional, and/or whatever shit else there was.

He was not okay. That was enough.

Apparently, there was vengeance to be had, after all.

"Got to—" he was going to finish that sentence with 'go', and then leave very determinedly, but—

"Sorry, I'm ready now, we can—_holy crap_, you're Jason Todd."

"No kidding," he replied, eyes narrowing, fingers twitching with irritation.

Stephanie Brown was – more the Barbie-doll personified than Barbara – an ex-Robin, too. Cut from the same cloth of abundant "recklessness" as Jason himself, _apparently_. It got her fired before it got her killed, and then she died, anyway – only she _didn't_ – and now she was Batgirl, which…the Dark Knight either had no say about, or didn't actually mind, after all.

Truth be told, Jason should admire her tenacity or something, but at the moment all he could manage was annoyance.

Stephanie was Tim's ex-girlfriend – and apparently he had Dick's same penchant for staying friends with exes – and he was upstairs, somehow _not okay_, and she was down here _smiling_.

There was a bounce in her step as she appeared behind Barbara's wheelchair, a lightness to her tone, a pleasant curve to her lips and a happy glint in her – completely different form Barbara's – blue eyes (even if they were also _obviously_ freshly dried of tears).

It grated at Jason's skin.

Jason couldn't imagine even _Dickie _– who was more often than not considered the sole definition of happiness, for fuck's sakes – _smiling_ while their little—

_Shit_.

His. _His_ – as in _Dick's_ – little brother was somewhere upstairs, not okay.

"Wow, that's one intense bat-glare," she remarked suddenly, blinking at Jason before she leaned a little towards Barbara, "Or is that just his normal expression…?"

The corner of Barbara's lips quirked up into a little smirk, briefly, but she didn't reply. Stephanie didn't seem to actually want an answer anyway, though Jason didn't give her chance to—

"Don't compare me to him," he snapped, and then felt stupid, because it sounded childish.

The girls didn't reply. Instead, Stephanie said, "I assume you're here to see Tim, and Bruce."

Barbara shifted in her seat.

"_No_," Jason scathed, harsher than he would have if she hadn't mentioned Bruce.

Stephanie frowned and pursed her lips like she disapproved of that about as much as Jason had of her smile.

"Well, you—"

"—should," came, quietly, with the swing of the left-sided – from where Jason stood – door, enough to reveal a short, half-Asian girl, dark hair pulled back, her eyes dark brown and peering up at him as she curled around the door, a tattered-looking book Jason couldn't see the cover of clutched to her chest.

_Damn, Replacement _– apparently Dick really was rubbing off on the kid – who else was going to jump out of the woodwork just to see him?

Huntress? Batwoman? _Cat_woman? _Wonder Girl?_

That last one actually seemed likely.

And then, none of them did – as secret identities went, the three Batgirls were the only ones in the know. Jason was only mostly assuming. And yes, he was just going to collectively refer to them as the Batgirls now, for ease of monologuing – though he knew Barbara went by Oracle now and Cassandra, that was her name, had passed on the mantle to Stephanie.

She was stationed mostly in Hong Kong, according to Jason's Intel – no longer Talia, as a side – but Jason had glimpsed her flitting across rooftops, either patrolling or searching for Tim – or both – the past month. Two.

…

Almost three.

…

…His stomach twisted just thinking about it, so he stopped.

Cassandra Cain was a weapon, Jason had thought, watching her work, too curious not to, even though he really hadn't had the time – his lead had already been old by the time he picked up the trail and getting colder by the second. Still, it was _him_, so it was worth it.

Pretty Bat was lithe and agile enough to rival Dick – flexible in a way few of them truly mastered – and tall, despite her lack of _actual_ height, fierce and commanding enough to rival Bruce – invoking fear with little more than a _look_.

She went by Black Bat, Jason had heard, which, he'd thought, was only a little redundant since bats were already black – or so went the general assumption, anyway, but who was he to criticize, really? He went by the colour of his hood. Not technically, but if you didn't know the history there you wouldn't think anything else.

"You…_want_ to."

It took him a moment to realise what she'd said.

His arm had come down from the door at some point he didn't remember, and he clenched his fists at his sides now, so tight the leather of his gloves squeaked with the strain.

"Like _hell_ I do!" he snapped, glaring daggers at her.

She didn't even flinch.

"_Hey_, no need to be such an a—"

But Barbara's hand came up, almost lazily, and Stephanie cut herself off, just as Jason turned his glare back on her.

"Let's just go, Steph," Barbara said, tone dry. "Jason's a big boy. He knows what he's doing. And I'm late, besides."

She regarded him over the rim of her glasses, and Stephanie didn't hide her scowl either, grabbing hold of the wheelchair's handles. Cassandra made no move to help, and Barbara's fingers curled securely round the armrests as Stephanie made to wheel her right down the porch's steps.

She only made it so far as the first edge before Jason had come round to the front of Barbie's perch, fingers reaching for the armrests, only _just_ not touching them as he met Barbara's gaze, "Let me…"

She didn't seem surprised in the slightest, though Stephanie had halted the chair a little abruptly. Jason chose to ignore that. Both of that – all of that, really, he needed no remarks on his behaviour. It was the decent thing to do and that was it.

He had no doubt Stephanie and Barbara had probably done this before, or else strong little Cassandra might have jumped in – not that Jason knew enough to assume, but she was a Bat, it seemed to go without saying. Only, he was there and doing nothing, plus Barbara seemed peeved at him, which sucked for some reason, and he didn't know how else to apologize for whatever the hell he'd done _this_ time.

Gaze unwavering, which only served to make his skin crawl, Barbara released the armrests and brought her hands up, making room for him. Grip sturdy, he gave Stephanie a quick glance before they lifted the wheelchair in tandem, hovering it just enough to move it smoothly over the steps and place it safely down on solid ground again. Jason kept his eyes on his hands, well-aware of Barbara's on his face.

Leaning a little forward put her face inches from his own, still bent forward as he was, and Barbara's hands came back down to settle on his wrists, squeezing slightly. He flinched, looking up at her.

Her eyes looked hazy, but serious, through the glass, and her deep red hair framed her face, spilled over her shoulders in waves of _fire_ and _blood_.

"_Thank you_," she said, so low he didn't think the others could hear, and Jason's brow furrowed – she couldn't mean this. "For what you did for Tim."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," he replied, just as quiet, if so much more strained, before, jaw firmly set, he made to straighten, intent on forcefully plucking his arms from her grip, but she let him go without protest and he stepped back, trying to remember how to breathe.

Stephanie gave him a pensive look he pointedly ignored, even as Barbara turned her gaze away, started pushing herself in the direction of the car. "Let's go, Steph, Alfred shouldn't be long."

"Right…" and she wandered after Barbara, Jason's gaze following them both for a moment – he hadn't even seen the car parked off to the side when he'd approached the manor, too fixated on the doors.

That right there was an _excellent_ display of his night-work skills.

Alfred was probably driving them home, but the car in question was much too expensive to be anyone's but Bruce Wayne. Jason contemplated how _not long_ Alfred would take and how fast he'd need to walk to get back to the gates and disappear without them passing him, when—

"Wait," Cassandra spoke, not as quiet as she had before, but still as firm, and Jason, skittish as a cat for crying out loud, felt his shoulders twitch. The shorter girl – by at least half a head – skipped down the steps towards him, holding out her book, pointing one finger at it, "Read. Please."

Jason snatched it only a little less politely than he could have, still a little irked, and read the title aloud, "_Beauty and the—_" he cut off, not only recognizing the too-large, slanted and half-crooked letters scribbled with a thick Sharpie, but the roughly bound book with its thick cover and curled pages as well. He knew if he opened the book there'd be a couple pages at the beginning in his own handwriting, the pencilled words probably faded and the paper yellowed with age, the rest neatly typed out on thick white sheets, finishing the story. "…_Beast_. This is mine," he finished with a stunned mumble, before he gathered himself enough to demand, "Where the _hell_ did you get this?"

"I'm afraid that was my doing…Jason," came the reply, even as Jason looked up to glare at Cassandra – who had her head curiously tilted at him, but said nothing. She hadn't been the one to speak; instead, the culprit stood just over her shoulder – tall and slim, and forever dressed in a neat black and white suit as if he owned absolutely nothing else—

_Alfred_.

There had been only the _briefest_ of pauses before Alfred had said his name, as though he'd never hesitated, but that only made the absence of '_Master_' all the more striking. Jason was no longer a master in the manor.

"My apologies, young sir. Miss Cassandra expressed the desire to read to young Master Tim," Jason only _just_ managed not to twitch. "And as you might recall, Master Bruce rarely keeps a suitable story on his shelves. I directed her to your collection instead…" Alfred's weary eyes fell on the book Jason was unconsciously clutching with all his fingers, and rested a gloved old palm on the cover. Alfred didn't look at him when he spoke again, but Jason couldn't keep his eyes off the old man's face – it had been _too fucking long._

"I'm afraid I'd quite forgotten your penchant for rewriting library books in your own hand, before you could type them out. Cheaper than buying them, you used to say. More honest than simply keeping one. And I believe, apart from your many Robin trinkets, your library card was your most prized possession."

Jason couldn't add to the conversation for the lump in his throat, though he did manage a weak nod. Alfred's head came up and Jason lowered his gaze, no desire to catch sight of whatever disappointed expression Alfred felt fit to grace him with. The old man's hand slipped from the book to straighten his coat.

"_Do_ step inside, sir," Alfred said, in that tone Jason had heard so many times as Robin and brooked no argument. "Before you catch a cold. For all that winter is still coming, the chill is hardly bearable."

And then he was gone, stepping almost regally towards the car. He'd started it up and was backing out the driveway before the feeling returned to Jason's fingers.

For all that he'd been "saved" from the streets and adopted by Bruce, was trained by him, had been his partner, his failure, had called him…_Dad_, on occasion…Alfred was the one who'd raised him.

A single one-sided conversation with the man and Jason had the same sickening churn in his gut that he had months ago – when he'd called Tim _Timmy_, of all the damn things.

"You're more than welcome, you know…"

Jason's head snapped up, a firm scowl on his face as he locked eyes with Dick, who stood on the porch's first step. Jason shoved the book at Cassandra, not quite bothering for her to actually _take_ it before he let go. For all her grace in a mask and cape roaming through darkness, the girl scrambled awkwardly to stop the book from falling. Jason had spun around to leave before he could tell if she'd managed.

"_Wait_," Dick called, _of course_. "Where are you going?"

There was an itch between Jason's shoulder blades. A quick, throbbing pulse in his neck. A twist to his stomach and an ache to his head. Honestly, he couldn't care less where he went as long as he went _away_. But he thought of Timmy. Still not okay.

"Something I got to do," he answered offhandedly, though his tone was strained, throat still dry, not certain why he was replying in the first place.

Though he'd started walking off, and not exactly slowly either, he could still hear Cassandra's quiet input – to Dick – "The Joker."

He quickened his pace, clenched his fists, and would have marched right down to the gates without falter, no matter _what the hell_ Dick tried to say to stop him – dead or alive, replacement or not, Tim deserved a little justice; they _all_ did – only—

Of all the things Jason thought Dick could _possibly_ have come up with, _this_ never even _made_ the list, and hearing it Jason couldn't do anything else _but_ stop.

"Joker's _dead_, Jason."


	5. interlude: the need to know (prt 2)

**~the need to know~  
**

* * *

"I think I'll be a clown when I get grown," said Dill.

Jem and I stopped in our tracks.

"Yes sir, a clown," he said. "There ain't one thing in this world I can do about folks except laugh, so I'm gonna join the circus and laugh my head off."

"You got it backwards, Dill," said Jem. "Clowns are sad, it's folks that laugh at them."

"Well I'm gonna be a new kind of clown. I'm gonna stand in the middle of the ring and laugh at the folks."

― Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

* * *

Alfred checked in just as Dick had finally gotten Tim settled down.

Following finding the boy relieving his stomach of his most recent meal in the toilet bowl ten minutes before, Tim had mumbled apologies and pleaded to be forgiven for things Dick couldn't make out and finally didn't care to. Tim had been a stuttering, trembling _mess_, and it hadn't been the first time either.

Over the course of the past several weeks he'd – _finally_ – been home, Tim's manner had alternated between never speaking, to _shouting_ everything at the top of his lungs, to mumbling, to stuttering, to signing, to scribbling everything down – on papers, and walls, and his own hands if not someone else's unexpectedly – each bout of speech or not-speech always turning into an uncontrollable fit of _giggles_.

Shoulders shaking, fingers twitching, eyes wide _giggles_ that spew forth in bursts of eerie elation from the pit of his belly, like he _meant it_.

Dick would have been glad seeing his brother crack a smile, _laugh_ as if he were happy, but that wasn't what it was – it was a warped, ill-placed _grin_ and a _creepy_ cackle that had nothing to do with happiness at all.

Returning to the manor, Tim had been quiet the first few days, and Dick, Cass, Bruce and Alfred hadn't pushed him into explaining anything. They'd run tests, they'd cleaned Tim up – from the lavish purple suit and green tie to the hair dye and the make-up, until finally Dick could see his little brother underneath it all again.

Tim had allowed it, and had gone silently through the tests and the check-ups – never a word and never an expression. Until, a few days in, when, tucking Tim in for the night, Dick had run his mouth a little, mentioning Jason and his inexplicable disappearance about a month after Tim's and how they still hadn't been able to find him, either.

It started as a slow twitch at the corner of Tim's mouth, cutting Dick off mid-sentence, wondering what was wrong, and then Tim's expression blossomed into a – happy, Dick had thought at first – _grin_ – but he soon realized it didn't meet the boy's eyes. Then Tim had giggled, and looked at Dick, and looked, and _looked_, and _giggled_ as if Jason being missing was the funniest thing Tim had ever heard.

Dick must have been staring – gaping – for five whole minutes before he grabbed Tim by the shoulders to plead, "_Stop_, Timmy—"

It had sounded too much like…well, it sounded _wrong_, and not like Tim _at all_.

Tim had cut off abruptly, tears jumping to his eyes all at once, and then his giggles had started up again after the momentary pause, littered with sobs and yelps and screams, and _crying_ and _crying_—

Dick had sat holding him all night, and it was hours before he'd quieted down, and hours more before he finally fell asleep – only, not before he spoke for the first time in _days_ (if not _weeks_; who really knew), "I killed him."

Voice so hoarse and broken, Dick still wasn't sure he'd heard him right, but…he didn't know what else it could have been. Dick wasn't sure how long Tim had slept, but, when he woke with an almighty start just as his parents' bodies hit the hard circus ring with a loud _thump_ he could _hear_ even in his dream, Tim was awake – and staring at him.

He started talking after that. Quietly at first. So much so Dick sometimes wasn't sure Tim was talking to him until the boy was tugging at his sleeve and repeating himself impatiently. It escalated from there. Ended in giggles, and morphed into sobs so gut-wrenching and stomach-turning just to _listen to_, if Dick didn't know any better he would have sworn Tim was being _tortured_ right in front of his eyes.

Or, as they discovered at last, just reliving the last couple months in The Joker's hands.

Tim's tests had come back, listing chemicals and substances in his system half of which Dick wasn't sure was _safe_ to mix together, and the other half he wasn't sure he'd ever even heard of before. The only thing that seemed remotely familiar, was a different mix of Joker Venom – non-lethal, it _seemed_, but potent nonetheless.

The very first time Tim had been taken in by the giggles and the crying was still at Joker's lab, right after the clown had stopped laughing himself – was _dead_ – and, realizing it was most likely triggered by the Venom, Batman had administered the usual antidote. However, there was no point in continuing _that_ line of treatment – Joker's new mix of chemicals seemed to be half-_made_ of Batman's antidote and it could only do more harm than good now.

Whatever Joker did hadn't been like shooting up a drug, either, but rather planting an _infection_. Tim was _sick_. And Joker's virus was evolving and growing and seemed to be eating Tim up from the inside, and they _needed_ something to fight it with, to destroy it with.

To, apparently successfully, be able to create such a thing – who knew The Joker had been such a…genius?

Sharing this information with Tim – discreetly, of course, the cliff notes of what was _necessary_, since they needed more blood and tests and figuring out a new antidote, and Tim had turned prickly and wary unless he knew more or less exactly what they were doing – the boy had slipped off into staring at nothing as he so often did, and finally just started talking right over Dick, answering questions they hadn't had the heart to start asking yet.

Dick had stopped in his ministrations, and Alfred, several feet away had paused to listen as well, both of them gone sickly pale the longer Tim spoke – until Dick at last couldn't take any more.

He'd wrapped his arms around Tim and pressed the boy's cheek against his shoulder, begging him to stop talking, but he only continued, voice muffled against Dick's shirt, until Alfred discreetly slipped him a safe sedative and Tim eventually nodded off. Dick had never been more grateful. Or more disturbed.

They had since only recently come up with potential medication that could delay the development of the disease, but Tim was due for another testing. Bruce was confident, though. In a bout of coherence one afternoon, Tim had found Bruce down in the cave, tired and irritable but determined in his work, and had made several suggestions that Bruce later told Dick had still been as smart as ever, nudging him in the direction he'd been looking for but couldn't find.

Tim would be alright, Bruce had kept repeating – at regular intervals and whenever he caught sight of Dick, to the point Dick didn't know if he was the one being reassured anymore, or if Bruce was talking to himself. He at last stopped after Tim finally heard his reassurances as well, and the boy's mumbling became shouting, and manic laughing, as he accused Bruce of _hating_ him, and wishing that he _wouldn't _be alright, because how _could_ he after what Tim had _done_ and Tim knew Bruce really only wanted him gone, or _dead_, and he should just leave and Bruce would be better off without him—

It had taken them several hours to calm the boy down and convince him none of it was true, but Tim wouldn't listen until after he'd slept, too cried out to do anything else. He'd nodded, forlornly, and promised Dick he believed him that Bruce loved him and would never abandon him or want him gone. But then Tim had gone back to staring and grinning at nothing for hours on end and Dick wasn't certain he believed Tim had meant any of it.

He hadn't followed through on his challenge to leave yet, though, and Dick was taking it as a win.

Tim had mild to severe breakdowns like that at irregular intervals, and the strangest or most mundane things could set him off sometimes. Jason's name especially had triggered an episode of particularly destructive magnitude, and they'd elected to stop discussing Jason's state of absence after Tim burst out laughing and started throwing medical supplies around when Dick voiced his concern for their still-missing brother one evening after patrol. He was undeterred in his laughter even as Dick tried to grab at and calm him down somehow.

Tim had ended with the hair-raisingly _joyful_ – _satisfied_ – exclamation of "_He killed him!_" Dick was prepared to swear to it having been "he" not "I," no matter how many skeptic and concerned looks Bruce gave him on the topic.

It may have been the disbelief and concern on Dick's face that had Tim stop and quiet _abruptly_ at the end of that sentence, before the kid _slapped_ both hands over his mouth, blue eyes wide and tear-filled as he took to muttering, "I didn't mean that, that was awful, that's not funny, why would I laugh? That's not—Jason, sorry, sorry, sorry—"

Dick had scooped him up and held him all night.

Because Tim was still as sneaky as ever, they found him a couple nights in a row, eavesdropping on their conversations in the cave or outside Bruce's bedroom door, but he seemed to have somehow forced himself out of having another reaction to Jason's name after the last time. Dick didn't mention him unless it was absolutely necessary though, just to be safe.

Tim's grin, and the _laughter_, had been too much to take, especially without the accompanying Joker-esque ensemble of purple suit and make-up, leaving no delusions of it being _Tim_ laughing like a – like _that – _maniac. Dick didn't want to witness an episode of that degree a second time.

The smaller ones, he'd learned, could stay small or be cut off completely if he calmed Tim down in time and stopped him from giggling too much soon enough. Tim gave him opportunity enough to practice several times a day, and Cassandra, able to read Tim's actions before the kid himself even had a clue, would call Dick, or warn him, or wrap Tim up in her arms and hum to him herself if no one else was close enough. He seemed to like that more often than not and Dick, with patrolling, and helping Bruce with antidotes and research and cases, often handed Timmy over to Cass for cuddles and reducing fits.

Hysterical, episodic giggling they were almost getting the hang of so far aside, the thing that just plain _upset_ Tim the most was eating.

Since Joker had apparently been _starving_ him for the most part, continually silent-Tim hadn't _wanted_ to eat anything the first few days of his return, and he'd stubbornly refused. Dick made sure he practically drank his weight in water, though, and had _eventually_, at last, coaxed him into eating small things at regular intervals.

It was a work in progress though, Tim's body reacting differently to things he'd previously had no problem with, and whenever one thing or another had him rushing to the bathroom, it was not unusual for him to revert back to silence, or the muttering-stuttering Tim of the first few days – and the eventual giggles if Dick didn't get to him in time. Once he'd calmed down, Tim was angry at himself mostly, for wasting food and being a nuisance, and his uncontrollable and inappropriate fits, and he'd scowl no matter how Dick tried to placate and reassure him.

Dick could see the look intensify on Tim's face now, from the corner of his eye, when Alfred stepped in with a silver tray, laden with food and drink and pills – once bright blue eyes seemed dark grey suddenly and his nose scrunched up, thin lips twisting distastefully.

"Master Bruce's dinner," Alfred said mildly and in no way suggestive of actually having seen the boy's face, as he half-lifted the tray in gesture. "Rather early, but…well."

Dick nodded a little, understanding, and rubbed circles across Timmy's back where he sat next to him on the bed, Tim with his knees pulled up and his arms around his legs, toes idly curling, clasping at the covers.

"However, some water for you, Master Tim?"

Tim's eyes narrowed, "What's in it?" he asked quietly, no absence of accusation in his tone.

Dick gave Alfred an apologetic look, though the butler hardly seemed fazed – and why would he be? He was _Alfred_ after all. The old man was well acquainted with all of their moods and their quirks, even if they didn't think he'd been there for all of them, and even when they tried not displaying some in his presence. Dick had always thought, when he was younger, that it must be a butler-thing, but as he'd gotten older he came to realize it was much more of a (grand)father-thing. They were as much his charges – his _family_ – as Bruce had always been.

"Nothing but good old H2O, sir," Alfred replied patiently – _that_ may have been more of a butler-thing, though, Dick mused.

Tim snorted grumpily, and Dick shook his head, smiling as he got up, "Come on, Timmy, you need your fluids."

"Then you drink it first," Tim mumbled, and Dick shrugged as he relieved Alfred's tray of the extra glass.

Bruce was a workaholic on the best of days, but especially on the worst, with little to no _real_ regard for his health when he had no more than the common cold, even, and especially not when he was in the midst of a case with too much work to be done to worry about anything else.

Dick and Cass had begun dividing their time between Tim and Bruce – Cass a much better Batman-esque stand-in and just as feared besides, and Dick much better suited to working in the lab on antidotes and medicine and figuring stuff out.

But when that was no longer…well, _needed_, except for Tim, Dick didn't know what he was going to do – don the cape and cowl again? Part of him wanted to even less than the last time.

Sometimes he caught himself staring at the Batsuit – Bruce's at first, before he'd finally taken out the one tailored for _him_ to stare at that instead. Grimacing.

Cass had found him once, in passing, and, without even a pause she'd whispered, "I'll wear it," at his back and was gone when he turned around.

He found it eerie how well-suited she was for the role, even as she lacked certain pertinent abilities – reading, mostly, though it was getting better. Talking came more fluidly nowadays, even if she did still speak slowly. But then, Batman only needed a few words to get a job done and Cass's slow, quiet way was more threatening than anything Dick could ever come up with.

But if Cass donned the suit all of Gotham would know the difference and react accordingly – which would still be chaos no matter how dangerous a Bat Cass was.

Gotham _needed_ a Batman. Needed _The_ Batman, which was why Bruce still _insisted_ on being out there at least four or five days out of seven, but he also insisted on trying to do everything himself regardless of anything. Dick and Alfred had started lacing his food with mild, harmless sleeping medication.

Bruce knew, of course, there was no way he couldn't, but Dick suspected he was more grateful than anything else. Sleep was slow in coming otherwise, if at all, and he looked more exhausted by the day. The least they could do was make sure he was well-rested for patrols – or, that he missed one every once in a while.

Bruce hadn't raised his voice about the latter again after he was too hoarse to manage another word the first time, for one thing, and had sent an eavesdropping Tim into hysterics at the noise, for another.

Tim's suspicion wasn't unfounded, thus – the boy knew he wasn't sleeping, either. Each of them had come across him in the middle of the night, grinning at a closed window with no recollection of how long he'd been sitting there or what he'd been thinking of or when he'd climbed out of bed.

So Dick gave Alfred a _look_ just to be sure, and then turned to take a hearty sip so Tim could see. He grinned at the younger boy, who frowned and looked cowed and sorry.

"You don't have to drink it right now," Dick said, and placed the glass on Tim's nightstand before reclaiming his seat on the bed, arm round Tim's shoulders.

"Thanks, Alfred…" Tim had mumbled, eyes on the floor, and Alfred nodded cordially in reply.

"Indeed, sir," face expressionless for all but a very _brief_ly satisfied look. That was a butler-thing, too. The grandfather in Alfred was about as stressed-out as the rest of them – shoving cutlery back into cupboards and closing doors too loudly, scowling into space as he dried the dishes and kneading at his temples as he let his tea grow cold in the dead of night.

"Master Dick…?" Alfred started up again and Dick raised his eyebrows in anticipation, Tim staring off again, leaning into his side. "A word, sir?" Alfred intoned quietly and Dick nodded, the old man stepping back into the hall as Dick turned to his little brother.

"I have to talk to Alfie, Tim," he said as he stood, snapping Tim from his reverie to eye his eldest brother as Dick gently coaxed him into lying down. "Rest a little, just give me a sec."

But Tim had drifted off again already, his blue eyes slipping to look at nothing, blank and far away.

Dick frowned as he wandered away, leaned against the doorframe as he faced Alfred, "Yup?"

Alfred's voice was quiet, plainly for Tim's benefit, and when he started Dick could see why, "Master Jason has taken up a familiar pastime."

"He's here?" Dick said urgently, only a little too loud but unable to stop himself. He hadn't seen Jason in _months_. Hadn't _heard_ anything since the once-Robin had phoned the manor weeks ago and wasn't sure he wasn't in some kind of trouble after all. Dick glanced back, to see Tim had scooted across the bed to the nightstand and was holding his glass of water firmly in both hands, chewing at his bottom lip and frowning. Dick dropped his voice, "How's he look – he okay?"

Alfred nodded, "Seems to be, sir, I only caught him from a distance, still approaching the gate, to be honest. I know you've been anxious to see him."

"Yeah," Dick nodded.

"Then I shall see to Master Bruce," Alfred hefted the tray in indication, "And return the girls home forthwith. Try not to linger outside, sir; there is a chill in the air."

"Of course, Alfred," Dick agreed with a small smile, though with Jason one could never really predict these things.

"I'm certain I don't need to ask you to check that Master Bruce has eaten – and not fed his food to the dog," Alfred added and Dick's smile lingered between amused and bitter understanding. He nodded again. "And Miss Cassandra meant to read to Master Tim," Alfred half-glanced down the hall, in the direction of the stairs as if Cass was just now due to come bounding up the steps, book in hand. She didn't.

"I got it, Alfie. _Thank you_," he added, and meant it sincerely. "We'll be alright, don't worry."

"Very well, sir," Alfred said in a rare tone of fondness and Dick smiled as he watched the old man make his way down the hall to Bruce's room.

He sighed, then, though – eager as he was to see Jason, he didn't really want to leave Tim by himself, waiting for Cassandra.

Deciding he'd give her another couple minutes then – she was probably scouring bookcases for something simple to read amongst Bruce's collection of complex stories and Alfred really should've just picked something out _for her_, but never mind – Dick turned back to the room, only to halt in his tracks when he suddenly came face to face with Tim.

"Tim?" Dick asked, worried at once, which seemed to have become his default setting. "You alright?"

The boy was looking up at Dick with thin, firmly pressed lips and squinted eyes, wringing his hands.

He gulped in a big breath, and let it out even as he spoke, "You should go see—Jason," he finished in a whisper.

"Um." Dick blinked. "Uh, well, I will, Timmy," and he touched a hand to Tim's shoulder, guiding him around and back into the room. "But I don't have to _right now_. We can still hang out a little," he smiled, settling back onto his spot on the bed, surreptitiously giving Tim's nightstand a glance – the glass of water had been returned to its perch, not a drop missing.

Tim stayed standing, though, watching Dick with a _frown_ that was just so very _Tim_, it made his heart swell for a moment with fond familiarity. But then, Tim seemed to be considering Dick like a complex puzzle in need of intense scrutiny and plenty of time to solve; only he didn't have the ability to produce either – a too-firm set to his jaw pointing at grit teeth and a twitch to his brow spoke of aggravated impatience. Tim's raised hands bopped against each other, joints clicking.

"But you _want_ to," he said, resolute, but…_resigned_, and Tim's eyes, downcast, darted this way and that nervously, glanced up at a corner and back. He did that sometimes, mostly when he thought no one was looking – considered corners as if something could be lurking in the shadows there. "So you should."

Tim's bumping joints missed and he jumped, hitting his fingers with his fist.

"Timmy—" Dick reached for his hand, but the boy pulled back, crossing his arms tight over his chest, fingers digging into his sides.

"'m fine…" shoulders hunched, he shrunk into himself a little more, eyes quickly scanning corners again before his gaze settled on Dick. "_Here_."

It was an odd look for the almost eighteen year old, to seem so childlike and _fragile_. Timmy had always been _small_, but never really _looked_ it, and certainly not like _this_.

Dick regarded his little brother a moment, unsure of what to say. Sometimes, Tim would wander off without a word – as at night when he settled in front of windows for no reason – and they'd find him in a deserted hall later, mumbling to himself (or the shadows on the walls, Dick tried hard not to think), but perfectly content on his own. And on other occasions he trailed after Dick or Alfred, or sat watching Cass pace as she read, or stared at Bruce in his study or while he slept, determined not to be _alone_.

At present, Tim looked dubious, and he felt it too, not wanting to keep Dick from his other brother, but not wanting the man to leave him either. Jason…_Jason_ didn't _want_ anything to do with their family. He couldn't care less, what was he even doing here? Tim didn't want Dick to leave him to go to _Jason_, but…but _Dick_ was so…he'd been _worried_. He missed Jason. Tim didn't know. Didn't know what to do – could he…? Could he be alone with the…? With…?

"Hey," Dick cajoled, crossing the gap between them with his fingers spread, after all, grabbing onto Tim at the elbow and gently tugging him closer. "Jay's not going anywhere yet," he said, hoping it was true. If he was lucky, Babs and Steph, who'd been on their way to wait for Alfred by the car, had kept him lingering with lengthy conversation, and Cass was already on her way up with her book. "We can sit some more," Dick touched at Tim's other elbow with his free hand; _barely_ touching really, not wanting Tim to feel _trapped_, but not wanting him to feel far away and alone either.

"But…" Tim mumbled, undeterred. "You _want_ to, and I. I-I just…I want you t—to…to be," Tim blinked back and forth between Dick's face and a shadowy corner, his cheeks going pink. "H-happy, I know—"

"Timmy, I'm not _un_happy—" Dick said at once, gripping his little brother only a little tighter in assurance.

"_Know_ I'm _not_," Tim cut in, determined for Dick to hear, his voice a little stronger. "Not…" he shook his head, as if to rethink and –order his words. "You have. _Patrol_. And there's…there's _Bruce_. And now. _Jason_," he whispered the name, barely audible. "And I'm—I'm no _help_ like this, and—"

"You don't _need_ to be," Dick clutched at Tim's forearms. "You're always the one with the _plans, _and ideas, and—and _helping others_ – but now it's _our_ turn, Timmy. Let _us_—"

But Tim was already vigorously shaking his head, dark bangs flicking this way and that. "But you _need me_, for this, and I can't," he ducked his head. "Can't _think_. And you're _stuck_ with me, and I should just—and I know it's no…no f—"

"Tim—"

"_Fun!_" Tim spat, and hiccupped, a high-pitch giggle breaking free from his throat and Tim had his hands slapped over his mouth next second, eyes wide and fearful.

"It's okay, it's okay," Dick chanted, rubbing at the younger boy's arms and scooting a little closer in his seat, half-attempting to pull Tim into a hug, but, shoulders stiff and feet firmly planted Tim wasn't having it and Dick didn't push.

"I didn't mean to do that," Tim breathed through his trembling fingers.

"Yeah, Timmy, I know," Dick said quietly, giving Tim a small smile, "I know. But it's fine. It's fine, I…um, I – I like it when you laugh."

Tim dropped his hands, giving Dick a dry, very _Tim_ look that, if Dick didn't know any better, he'd have sworn everything else had just been an act.

"That was not a laugh, Dick," Tim said scornfully, and refolded his arms, eyes on the carpet. He mumbled something Dick thought sounded like, "That wasn't even me."

He elected to ignore it – for now – and made to say something else when Tim cut in, "You should go," he said simply, and graced Dick's shoulder with a firm poke.

Dick chuckled, "_Hey_," and caught Tim's hand and smiled at him.

Tim didn't return it. "Jay…_Jason_, would…_want_ to see you, too."

"Yeah," Dick agreed, keeping his skeptisism to himself, but then another notion came to mind, "You know, actually. I think he probably wants to see you, rather. He probably came to make sure you're alright – Timmy, that's not so farfetched—"

Tim was slowly shaking his head again, "I'm just the replacement, Dick," he said solemnly, "_His_ replacement as Robin—"

"_Tim_—"

"And now," Tim _giggled_, high-pitched and quick, and he didn't try to muffle himself this time. "_His_ replacement as…as The Joker—"

"_No_," Dick all but snapped, on his feet at once, hands firm on Tim's shoulders. "You are _not_ that. You will _never_ be that. You are Timothy Drake-Wayne. You are _Red Robin_. You are my _little brother_ – you have _nothing_ to do with that clown. _Ever_. The Joker is _dead_ – _leave him be_."

Tim blinked. "…Okay."

Dick frowned, but sighed, "Okay."

A beat passed, and Dick considered how to phrase an apology for snapping like that when Tim shuffled close enough to drop his forehead on Dick's shoulder. "Don't leave…"

"Hey, it's okay," Dick rubbed at his shoulders, and arms. "You can…you can come down with me – we can see Jason together—"

"No. Don't want to see him," Tim shook his head again. "Can't – just..._don't_ leave me, Dick—"

"I'm _not_, little brother – I'm coming _right back_, but I _need_ to know that Jason's alright. He's," Dick leaned back far enough to tilt up Tim's head and meet his eyes. "He's my little brother, too. Just like he's your big brother, too, right? …If it were _me_, you'd want to go out and see me, right…? Just see that I'm okay?"

Somewhere inside that felt like a low, cruel trick, but Dick couldn't help it – he _had_ to see Jason with his own eyes, but he couldn't force Tim along and he couldn't find it in his heart to just leave the boy in his room when he wanted Dick to stay, without a proper explanation or Tim understanding why.

Tim nodded at last, "Just…can you not leave me alone, in here…? Please," he asked, tentative and quiet, and Dick's heart clenched – something was wrong here. Too many things were wrong here. Tim hadn't been this careful and quiet since before he'd become Robin, and even then not nearly this often. He'd always been brave and unashamed to speak or ask for what he needed – or take it sometimes – if it was the most logical thing to do.

He'd never been particularly reluctant to admit his fears, either, though Dick had always thought he'd been selective about which ones to reveal when and how he phrased that admittance, but – the way he went about it now…was entirely unlike him.

"Of course not," Dick said, and threw his arm loosely around Tim's shoulders, pulling him along toward the door. "Let's find Cass. She can sit with you while I talk to Jason, okay?"

Tim looked unenthused, but nodded and followed nonetheless.

Coming down the stairs into the foyer with Tim, Alfred paused in the action of opening the front door to turn half-toward them, "Miss Cassandra has ventured outside, sir," the butler said, saving them from having to scour the studies looking for her. "Do put on a coat, Master Dick."

Dick nodded dutifully and waited for Alfred to step outside before turning to Tim. "I won't be long, Timmy," he promised, "And I'll send Cass in right when I see her."

Tim scowled at him, "I'm not a baby, Dick," he grumbled, and glared at the floor, at the doorway down the hall toward the kitchen behind them, at the empty space beneath the stairs.

"I know, little brother," Dick replied, and ruffled Tim's hair, leaving the younger boy to duck and throw up his hands, trying to save his do. Dick chuckled at the sight, and laughed with more gusto when Tim retaliated with a half-hearted jab at Dick's shoulder, smiling.

For a moment there wasn't anything wrong – in _the entire_ world – and then Tim laughed, _happily_, like he _used to_, and Dick's grin was wider, only to slip from his face at once when Tim's laugh was followed by a loud, obnoxious _giggle_, breaking the spell.

Eyes shut tight, like he was holding back tears, his nose scrunched up, lips no doubt twisted behind the immediate cover of his hands again, and Dick felt a pang of sympathy and dread.

"I'm sorry," Tim whispered, glancing up at Dick.

"Don't worry about it, Tim, don't even think about it, you did nothing wrong," Dick assured, but Tim stepped back as he reached out to him.

"Go," the boy said, still from behind his hands, head bowed.

"Timmy—"

"Now!" Tim snapped, "Just—go on, t-talk to…" he trailed off, ducking his head more.

Dick hesitated, torn, "Are you…sure, Timmy?"

Tim nodded, and made a noise like an annoyed growl. Dick blinked and took a breath.

"Okay…" he sighed, and, glancing back right until the last second, he stepped outside.

Jason was just off the porch, a few paces on, Cassandra at his side and Alfred with them, the old man speaking. Dick caught the tail-end of what Alfred was saying before he started making his way to the car parked off to the side – Stephanie and Babs already waiting—

"Do step inside, sir. Before you catch a cold. For all that winter is still coming, the chill is hardly bearable."

"You're more than welcome, you know…" Dick tacked on, because Jason had to hear that.

Cass had said Jason had thought of the manor as _home_ the first time he'd wandered aimlessly through the gates and settled unmoving on their porch for an hour, apparently realizing it _wasn't_. Only, now especially, Dick wanted it to be. Wanted to convince Jason it _was_. Even if Tim didn't want to see him right now, and Bruce was another issue all his own, Jason still belonged to this family, and now, _especially_, needed to be here.

Jason, who'd had his eyes on the ground the entire time, looked up abruptly, not having noticed Dick.

He _did_ look…_well_, Dick thought. As if he'd gotten too little sleep, but that was par for the course in their line of work. Other than that, Dick couldn't make out any obvious signs of hurt or injury.

Nearly scowling as he held eyes with Dick for a moment, Jason didn't say or do anything for a beat, before he shoved the book he was holding at Cass, turning to march off in practically the same motion.

"_Wait_," Dick called, bounding down the last steps. "Where are you going?"

Cassandra caught Dick's eye, nodded like she understood something he hadn't said.

"Something I got to do," Jason answered, half-dismissively, though he sounded strained.

"The Joker," Cass input, not quietly enough for Jason not to hear, and at once Jay was increasing his pace.

Dick knew what Cass meant, knew what Jason intended – the ever-looming revenge for everything the Joker had ever done to them, but apparently no one had told Jason.

Cass was trotting back into the house with a mumble about Tim, which Dick was thankful for, because – he had another little brother to take care of at the moment.

Resolving himself not to beat about the bush, for Jason's sake as much as anything else, he took another few steps in Jason's wake, quick and precise as he spoke, loud and clear, "Joker's _dead_, Jason."


	6. interlude: the need to know (prt 3)

**~the need to know~  
**

* * *

"People generally see what they look for, and hear what they listen for."

― Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

* * *

Jason barked out a laugh, which, admittedly, had not been the reaction Dick had been expecting.

"Seriously, _Dick_," he said, quickly sobered, as he started turning around, one hand half-covering his mouth as though he'd realised he hadn't _meant_ to laugh and breaking the previous silence had been almost sacrilegious. "Now's really not the time to be kidding."

"I'm _not_," Dick said firmly, but Jason, smiling sardonically, shook his head.

"_Well_," he said. "You _should be_."

Dick shut his eyes, shook his head, sudden exasperation testing his patience.

Jason turned around again, and managed a few quick strides before Dick looked back up, "I wouldn't lie to you, Jason," Dick said quickly, moving forward and grabbing Jason by the shoulder, "_Especially _about _that_," he emphasized, spinning the younger man around.

He was not so delusional as to think it wasn't because Jason didn't _allow it_.

"Well, if you hadn't noticed," Jason snapped, slapping Dick's lingering hand away, but not backing off, instead closing in on Dick's personal space – half-threateningly, almost. "You should really work on your…_presentation_, maybe, because, for a world-class act, I'm not really buying your performance—"

"Jay—"

"Simply put: _I don't believe you_," he finished, as if Dick hadn't tried to interrupt.

"_Jason_," Dick pinched the bridge of his nose, shut his eyes a second time and _breathed_. Jason not believing him wasn't really a thing he'd been anticipating – some shock, _some_ disbelief in the expected _"Really, how?"_ fashion that wasn't really _disbelief_, exactly, and maybe some jumped-to conclusions and accusations in the form of _"How could Bruce have killed The Joker for the Replacement, but not me?"_

Dick had mental arguments and explanations already planned – sort of – in his head for _those_, but _this_…

Not to mention Jason's tone was just this side of sarcastic, and Dick wasn't sure if he was being serious, or faking it so he could run off and have a nervous-breakdown somewhere alone.

"Don't fret on it, Dickie," Jason clapped his shoulder in plain _mock_-sincerity, before stepping back. Dick watched him through his bangs, "Couple acting lessons I'm sure you could nail this 'convince him our arch nemesis is dead'-tale you're spinning. Might win a few awards, even."

"Jason, be serious—"

"Oh, I _am_. Can't you tell? I take my sarcasm _very_ seriously," Jason spread his hands through the air, backing up even as he faced Dick, smirk sharp as knives.

"Take _me_ seriously," Dick barked, but didn't move to follow Jason anymore. "Take what I'm _saying_ seriously – The Joker is _dead_—"

"Can't do that, Dickie," Jason spoke even before Dick had gotten all of the last word out, raising a halting hand and turning around even as he did so. "The bastard clown doesn't die. He just _doesn't_," there was more than a little bitterness to his tone, and it tugged at Dick's heartstrings.

"And _why the hell not?!_" Dick demanded stepping forward once, his fists tightly clenched now. "Why is it _so hard_ for you to believe he's _dead?!_" Dick took a quick breath, disconcerted with his impatience – now was not the time to lose his head. Or his temper.

Jason had stopped, _again_, which seemed to be the only way they could have a conversation nowadays – a series of steps and stops and turning back arounds.

He did, at that, but not before throwing his head back and raising his arms in a helpless gesture and half-sighing, half-groaning at the sky.

"Because _how_ would he die, Dickie? In this little fantasy of yours – how _does_ the clown bite the bullet?" he leaned forward, inviting an answer, stepping closer as he spoke, dark eyebrows lifting in expectation.

Dick swallowed thickly, loosening the clench of his hands, but not uncurling his fingers. "He…got shot," he said at last, and when Jason let out another laugh it was less surprising this time.

"Well, kudos to me for the word-choice, huh?" he chuckled in Dick's face, and it was a cruel and distorted sound Dick hadn't known his brother could make. "So, whodunit? Bats, with the gun, in the belfry?" whatever, albeit derisive, amusement had been in his expression, swiftly fell into a harsh scowl, "Please_, spare me_," he grit, his own hands fisted tight at his sides, Dick noticed, shoulders squared and tense. There were bags under his eyes – brilliant and sea-_green_ in his fury – and a once-bloody spot on his bottom lip as if he'd torn at chapped skin recently.

Dick clenched his teeth and watched Jason make another attempt to leave, getting as far as a step or two as always, before Dick had gathered courage enough to speak – _choke_, really, "_Tim did it_."

The words came out loud, and _clear_, even as the air seemed to stick in his throat and fill it up and constrict and squeeze and suffocate, and he just—

_Fuck_ – _Tim_ had _killed_ The Joker.

Dick couldn't remember how to _breathe_, and when he blinked, quick and frustrated, there were tears.

If Jason's shoulders stiffened any more, Dick was half-sure he'd start hearing them actually _crack_ under the pressure. Jason didn't move, and when he spoke, his tone was strained, "That's _cruel_, Dick," a beat. "That's _not fair_," it was quiet, and then he spun about again and swiped one hand through the air as he spoke, "That is _not_ fair! Replacement doesn't _get_ to kill the clown in _any_ reality!"

Dick blinked, the pressure round his throat still tight, but lessened a little, and he almost _gasped_ in a breath at Jason's words.

"_Why_…?" he breathed, mortified at what the answer might be.

"Because—" Jason only faltered for a _moment_, before he continued, heated, grabbing hold of Dick by the collar of his shirt with both hands, "Because he's freaking _Tim_, that's why! And he doesn't _get_ to do it!" Dick's fingers had curled around Jason's wrists automatically, beneath the sleeves of his jacket, and his gloves, feeling at the erratic thump of his pulse. "_I do_," he hissed, glaring daggers at Dick, who had to swallow, and couldn't hide what he knew was a sad, pained, _sympathetic_ expression on his face. Jason elected to ignore it, though, apparently, as he added, "Me, or _Bruce_, no one else. No one else _deserves_ it."

Dick already hated himself a little for the reply that jumped right to the tip of his tongue, because _shit_ – _none of them_ was supposed to be killing _anyone_.

Tim was _broken_, and it wasn't just because of Joker's chemicals coursing through his veins, or the lingering giggles and the manic grin—

No.

It was the image haunting his every sleeping and waking moment, of The Joker, bloody and gasping for air and _choking_ on blood, still _laughing_, and then suddenly _nothing_. Lifeless eyes left staring into space.

There was no going back from that.

No matter what Bruce said, and Dick echoed, or Alfred tried to reiterate, or _anyone_ _else_, Dick knew Tim would always – _always_ – have a guilty, endless _pit_ in his stomach, trying to fill him up if he allowed it.

Though Joker had been a villainous, murderous bastard, he'd still been a _living person_, and _Tim_…Tim was responsible for the end of that life. Not to mention Bruce. Tim had broken Bruce's _only significant rule_: no killing. And with a gun, no less.

Some cynical part of Dick thought Bruce was only reassuring Tim that it was alright because Bruce didn't want to leave the issue unresolved and festering inside of Tim when he was…when he was no longer there.

Otherwise, though…would he have even _tried_ to stop Tim if he was more serious about leaving? Would he just let him go like he had Jason?

Dick wondered if that was why Jason stayed away – too many deaths on his hands, too much blood, and _guilt_—

Jason had no more right to kill the Joker than he had killing anyone else, and neither did Bruce, or Babs, or even Timmy, or even Dick himself, but they _had_ all been wronged, and Jason needed to see at least that much.

"No one else?" Dick said quietly, voicing the thought even as it made his stomach churn. He didn't want to think of his family _killing_. "Not Babs?" Jason's bottom lip had a minute tremor to it, his pulse jumping. "Not—not even _Timmy_, after—" he couldn't really finish that thought, but he tried anyway, "After what he _did_ to him?"

Jason averted his gaze, his bottom lip disappearing between his teeth, and Dick wondered where he picked that up – because Dick did it, too, and so did Tim, and so had…Dami, on occasion. Did they get it from Bruce…? Was it a Robin thing?

"And _me?_" he added at last, and grabbed Jason by the lapels of his jacket even as Jason still clutched at his shirt. "Don't I _get a shot_ at killing the clown?!" he snapped, and Jason's gaze whipped back to him, eyes a little wide and startled. "After he's _hurt_ my family the way he has?! After _everything_ he's done to us – _all_ of _us!_ And you _still_ think it's just about _you_," he tugged at Jason's jacket, "and _Bruce_, and The _Joker!_ What about _Babs_? What about _Tim!_" he nearly shouted in the younger man's face, "What about _me_, Jason?!"

"Fuck, _shit_, Dick," Jason breathed, ducking his head, looking away. Dick breathed, quick and erratic, odd in the wake of his tight chest after admitting what Tim had done before.

Jason swallowed audibly, spots of colour on his cheeks, the storm in his eyes somewhat subsided as he raised his head at last.

Dick blinked, the tears still there; only, they were in Jason's eyes now, too.

"At least," Jason started into the following silence, haltingly, but then more firmly, if quietly, as he glanced away and back at Dick, "Least none of them are dead."

"_Neither_ are you!" Dick countered at once, clutching tight and all but _yanking_ at Jason's lapels. Jason seemed to flinch, but spoke before Dick could say any more—

"_Aren't I_?" he asked, completely serious. "Isn't there a case in the cave that _says so_?" he whispered vehemently.

Dick could _feel_ the blood draining from his face. "That's just—_Bruce_, I…" he faltered. They needed to talk.

They _needed_ to talk. Before it was too late.

"Come _inside_, Jason," Dick pled.

"No," he replied instantly, trading Dick's shirt for his hands, tried to _pry_ them off his jacket. "Let _go_."

"Jason, please – you _need_ to talk to him—"

"Like hell I do," Jason mumbled, no longer looking at Dick, more intent on pulling at his fingers.

"He'd _want_ to see you, please—"

"Then he can damn well come out here and see me – I'm not trailing after his ass—" Jason blinked at the lingering moisture in his eyes.

"He _can't_—" Dick implored, voice quiet, firm, but Jason cut him off.

"Damn it; let go or I am breaking every _finger_ on your hands, Dick—what do you mean 'he _can't_'?"

"He's—" Dick started without thinking, and then stopped, because…how to phrase it? How to _say _it? In true Bat-fashion none of them had (yet?), and maybe none of them _wanted_ to. Dick least of all (or, maybe that was Alfred). So they'd skirted around the word with euphemisms and subtle trailing offs, and Bruce let them have it… "Sick," Dick said at last, his voice sounding small and _dishonest_ to his own ears.

Jason had gone still, his hands on Dick's, his blue-green eyes going wide and narrow and darting across Dick's face, and Dick knew, he _knew_, Jason was just _reading_ it in his expression even as he tried to keep it blank.

"What…?" Jason frowned, looking nonplussed, his lips barely moving and his grip on Dick's fingers visibly slacking. Dick was going to open his mouth and say something – soothing? Explanatory? Reassuring? _Something_ – but Jason's response quickly jumped from confused to upset, and he had Dick by the front of the shirt again not a moment later, his voice loud and rough, "_What_? Don't you screw with me, Dick—"

Dick started shaking his head, meaning to assure Jason that he wasn't, that he _wouldn't_, but a little trickle of anger made its way to the surface and he indulged therein instead, giving Jason a hard yank by the lapels, and shooting him a _look_, eyes narrowed at the younger man's face – and, damn, did he look _young_.

He could see for himself Dick wasn't lying.

"How the _hell?_" Jason all but growled, through his teeth, brows furrowed furiously, grip tightening on Dick's shirt. He knew now. He understood, Dick could see it in his eyes and… "And _why the hell_ am I the last to _know?!_"

Dick's glare faltered at once, his gaze slipping to his hands and his shoulders slumping. "Little Wing," he whispered, "I…" he had to swallow, past the lump suddenly formed in his throat at the remembrance of concern and upset and desperation. "I _wanted_ to tell you, _of course_ I did," he spoke to his hands. "I _tried_. I tried finding you, to tell you, to explain, but I couldn't," he looked up, well aware of the plea in his eyes. "You weren't _anywhere_, little brother. No safe-house I knew of, no _lackey_—" he spat with some amount of venom, the thought of his little brother a _crime lord_ with low-lives as _subordinates_ irked him to no end, "—I beat up could tell me where you were, no informants had a clue—" Jason blinked at that, but Dick didn't see, having looked away again.

And then he had a renewed _grip_ on Jason's jacket, "You were just _gone_," Dick searched his face, but though Jason looked less upset he had a much better reign on his expression than Dick. "Just _gone_, like—_Tim_, and I _thought_—" he couldn't finish, ducked his head instead, _clutched_ at Jason's jacket. "Little Wing," he mumbled. "You had me so worried," Jason swallowed reflexively, shifted his shoulders, his hold on Dick's shirt, plainly uncomfortable.

"Where were you?" Dick asked, still quiet, still eyeing his hands. Jason shifted his gaze, nipped at his bottom lip and shook his head, looked _guilty_, but Dick didn't see any of it, only looking up when Jason made to take a step back, pulling on his jacket to keep him in place.

"I was just…" he mumbled, and trailed off and clearly had no intention of finishing. Dick was already speaking over him—

"_Why_ couldn't I find you, Jay? Where did you disappear to?"

"None of your business," he muttered in reply, no bite to the words.

"_Jason_," Dick insisted, all the frantic nerves and worry he'd been harbouring since discovering his other little brother was missing, too, squirming beneath the surface, desperate to be settled. He traded Jason's collar for his shoulders, "Please," Jason half-rolled his eyes, looking away, at the sky, at the grounds where Alfred and the girls had long since departed. Dick tried catching his eye, "Just tell me where you were – were you—" words caught in his throat, insides roiling with feelings he couldn't quite place – regret, and guilt, and desperation, and _sorrow_ for his family, and how everything went so _wrong_ all at once, "_Hurt_? Or—"

"No," Jason said plainly and too seriously for Dick to think he was covering up an injury, but the older man's insides felt only marginally better.

Because if not _that_, "Then _what_? Where did you go?"

"I was—"

"We don't just _drop off the grid_ like that, Jason, you _know that_."

Jason almost looked like he was going to argue, as ever, that he wasn't part of the club, but he opened and closed his mouth and looked and looked away instead, and _struggled_ to give Dick the answer he wanted. He _gripped_ at Dick's shirt, and dropped his head, hands following suit, "I was…" he started again and trailed off.

Dick swallowed, and watched Jason stare at the ground, looking a little…_defeated_, and tried _willing_ him to continue, fingers twitching on the younger man's slumping shoulders. They were broad – like Bruce's, Dick thought – but they seemed weighed down by some invisible force Dick couldn't begin to figure out where or how to lift.

Jason raised his hands again to wipe both across his face even as he kept his head bowed and said, albeit quietly, "Was looking for the kid…"

Realization dawned, and an unbidden smile just _tugged_ at the corner of Dick's mouth, "Tim?" he asked, sounding ridiculously hopeful.

Jason nodded solemnly, straightened up a little, but didn't look at Dick, "I knew…Joker had him, and they were…'off the grid', and if anyone was going to find them, they were gonna have to be off the grid, too…" he explained, a little haltingly, and then he added, looking like he wished he hadn't even as he spoke, "I didn't tell you, cause…" Dick searched his face, torn between having some sympathy for what he was almost _certain_ Jason was going to name as a reason, and being _angry_ at the kid for still beating down that door. Jason caught his eye though, and maybe it was written on Dick's face, because Jason gave a different answer than what he expected, "There was, no time, I," he waved a hand and looked away again, mumbling to a close, "Just wanted to find the kid."

Dick let it go. And smiled.

A little at first, "And you _did_, Jay…_you_ called Alfred! At the _manor_!" and then he was grinning, shaking Jason by the shoulders a little because the younger man seemed determined not to share in Dick's joy, or look right at him. A delighted little laugh escaped him and he'd closed the gap between them, "Shit, never heard of a secure line, Jay?" throwing one arm round Jason's neck and the other over his arm to clutch at the back of his jacket all at once, pinning him close in half a bear hug.

"All the lines are sec—_Dick_—"

"_Thank you_," Dick said, serious and sincere, squeezing a little tighter. "If you hadn't," he shook his forehead against Jason's shoulder, and idly wondered how his little brother had gotten to be so tall? "…The Joker was—"

"I don't want to know," Jason cut in quickly. "Wh-_whatever _he did, I, I don't—"

"Yeah, okay," and Dick squeezed. "I'm sorry, I should've…figured."

Jason didn't reply, but shifted his shoulders uncomfortably – a subtle request for Dick to let go, perhaps.

He didn't.

"Dickie, let go," Jason said, as if using words was the better tactic. He pushed at Dick's side with his free hand, but Dick clutched at him tighter.

"Suck it up, Jay," Dick snapped, "You are my little brother, and you're—" what? Hurting? Broken; Cass had called him broken, and Jason looked…he just _looked_…Dick didn't know what else to do. "I'm _thanking_ you and I'll let you go when _I'm _good and ready, so shut-up."

Jason _sighed_ after a moment, slumping a little further in Dick's hold, and Dick felt him shake his head, too-long hair at Dick's temple and then Jason had dropped his head onto Dick's shoulder.

Dick smiled a little.

"Tell me about…" Jason started, only just not whispering.

_About…? Joker dying,_ Dick thought. _Oh, _not_ that, little brother._

Just _thinking_ about it before had turned Dick's stomach; he really didn't want to have to recount the entire event to satisfied Jason's morbid, vindictive curiosity. Even if he _did_ deserve to know.

_Just not right now…_

"B," Jason finished finally. "And the…what happened…?"

"…You could ask him that yourself," Dick whispered, and Jason at once squirmed in his hold, pushed him again, with actual force this time, and Dick wasn't surprised at the growl of his name. "Okay," he said, relenting, and he stepped back, releasing Jason for all but a hand on his shoulder and the other on his arm.

Jason scowled at him and Dick sighed, dropping his hands.

Jason, presumably, wasn't going anywhere – he'd _asked_ to know this, after all, and hopefully he wouldn't rush off mid-tale.

"Poison," Dick explained, and watched Jason's brow furrow. Dick carried on before he could ask how that was even possible – how did _Batman_ get _poisoned_? "It was…shortly after Timmy went missing. He was working a drug case at the time, and Bruce and I had no reason to suspect his disappearance didn't have anything to do with that, so…we retraced his steps. Trying to find who might have gotten to him, and how, and why—" Dick waved his hands as he spoke, shifted his weight, sighed.

Jason was watching him almost pensively – Dick didn't know, probably, that Jason had been working the same case on the other side of town, surreptitiously keeping an eye on Red Robin's progress and under no illusions that the little bird was monitoring him, as well.

Though they never met to share notes, the case was still why Jason had heard about Red's disappearance in the first place. He'd dropped it after almost a month with no progress on the Bat's side in finding his lost little bird, and had rather taken up that case himself, inexplicably…worried, he supposed. He had deeper, shadier contacts than the Bat, and when he learned who was most likely responsible, he'd taken matters into his own hands tracking them down.

When he did though, Jason couldn't bring himself to _go to_ The Joker and take the little bird back, because he knew he'd leave a grinning body behind and he just…at the time, oddly, didn't _want_ to do that, but didn't trust himself not to.

So he'd dialled the first number that came to mind when he tried to remember how to contact Bruce, and rattled off an address at the British accent on the other end, only realising he'd phoned the _manor_ after he hung up the phone in Alfred's ear. In his defence, he may or may not have been a little out of it at the time – running on too much caffeine and too little sleep and food and basic need-fulfilling necessities.

Sometime later he'd debated calling again, to make sure they'd gotten the message and was following the lead, instead of thinking it was a potential trap or something, but…Jason considered the old man _could_ have recognized his voice, _and_ calls were recorded, and it was _Alfred_, and Tim was _missing_ – he'd _bully_ Bruce into checking it out, _at least_. Jason had hoped, and spent weeks in uncertain turmoil until he couldn't take it any longer and _needed_ to know.

"I don't know _how_ Bruce got infected," Dick continued. "With Tim gone, and…you, too," he added quietly, half-gesturing his little brother, "So busy, and worried, and trying to find you both, he didn't…didn't tell me. Or Alfred. Or anyone…

"There's…no antidote, Jay… No cure. Or. If there is, we started looking too late, we can't…anymore, there's just…there's nothing—" he couldn't finish any of those sentences, they all sounded too final, and even as he was saying it, Dick knew it wasn't. Not for him, at least.

"…Just giving up on the old man, then," Jason muttered, and Dick's gaze snapped up from where it had slipped to the floor. Jason was glancing off to the side and Dick almost didn't think he'd actually spoken.

"Of _course_ not!" Dick snapped, though, unable to stop himself. "We've tried _everything_. We're still trying everything – _I'm_ trying everything—"

"Alright-alright, untie your panties," Jason said, raising both hands in surrender. "I didn't mean it, I…" Dick's shoulders slumped and Jason stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that…"

Dick lowered his gaze, smiled a little, and meant to make some joke about…how impossible Jason could always be, and how, 'when he'd been a kid,' and Dick—

Or _something_.

But then Jason had started moving again, "I have to go."

"Jason," Dick had him by the sleeve of his jacket. "Please come inside, you and Bruce—"

"No."

Dick wasn't going to make shaking him off easy for the kid, though, "—_need_ to talk, and _settle_ things once and for all. Before – _before_, Jason, please—"

"I said, no, let me go—"

"No – you are just being a stubborn _ass_—"

"No more than _you_—"

"—and _someone_ needs to—"

"_Let me go_—"

"No! You are _still_—_Jason_—"

"Lemme—"

"—a _part_ of this family—"

"—let _go_, Dick!"

Dick _should_ have seen Jason's fist coming, he just…

Was on his feet one moment, and on the ground the next, a _throbbing_ ache in his cheek settling into a painful tingle. Dick stared – at Jason almost _looming_ over him, looking—

Well. Like he regretted it.

"_Dammit_, Dickie!" Jason snapped, and Dick blinked at Jason's expression – all furrowed brow and scrunched up nose, and thin lips, and teary eyes like he was fifteen again. Jason _dragged_ his fingers through his hair, almost trembling; wild teal eyes darting about uncertainly.

He was turned in the next moment, just _marching_ away.

"Jay…" Dick…tried? Half-heartedly. He already knew it was too late. Jason heard, though, and spun around even as he still walked to snap—

"For heaven's sakes, Dick, let me go!" he was two steps along before he broke into a damn _run_, leaving Dick _sitting there_, just staring at him, and staring at the gates long after he was gone.


	7. attempting bravery (prt 1)

**~attempting bravery~  
**

* * *

'But going back again to get his glasses, when he knew the wasps were there, when he was really scared. _That_ was brave.'

― Neil Gaiman, Coraline

* * *

A trail of footprints in the snow decorated the driveway in his wake.

Evidence of his approach.

One more reason he could add to the seeming ever-growing list of why leaving now would only serve to make him feel _more_ embarrassed and stupid than actually knocking on the door would.

…So he might as well?

He thought he didn't particularly _want_ to, but…potentially, that was just the influence of his own…_what_?

Fear?

Cowardice?

Jason didn't know which one he wanted it to be; which one would be better.

…Weren't they inherently the same?

If he was too afraid to enter this once sort-of-home from a childhood that seemed to belong to someone else entirely, the more he thought about it; wasn't that cowardice?

Considering the circumstances? Considering his mental list of reasons for entering – one reason to dispute every excuse he'd had for not coming, every excuse he was conjuring up for not staying even as he made to knock. All of those reasons sounding much the same, but _that_ somehow only _reinforcing_ their importance, or, their _need_, rather than shrinking it against the variety of excuses they were meant to dispute.

…

No… Being afraid didn't necessarily make you a coward.

Jason had never thought of himself as a coward before; had always tried hard to be brave, even and especially when he was, in fact, scared.

Times when his father went out at twilight and came back at dawn with new bruises colouring his skin, lengthy dark hair a new kind of disarray; staggering, drunk, and his breath a pungent stink of mixed drinks that burned Jason's nostrils as he led his father inside, small hands on the man's broad back.

Jason had been scared on those days.

Scared for his mother, who locked herself in the bathroom for Jason to find later, passed-out, pale and breathing too shallow, mumbling at him with little coherence.

He tried being brave then, washing her face, singing or humming because it made her smile even if he wasn't sure she actually heard him right. _Somehow_, he'd tuck her into bed without crying.

Too much.

He was scared over his dad, too. Scared he wouldn't come back at dawn. Scared he'd come back drunk. Scared he'd come back sober. Scared he'd come back with friends. Scared he'd come back with enemies.

Jason tried being brave, once he caught on that his dad was leaving, sometimes before sunset, sometimes long after – when Jason was supposed to be sleeping, instead of listening to the sounds of his parents talking, or fighting, or not speaking at all and the only noises to be heard then were the creaks of the apartment, and the ragged breathing of their tiny old dog in Jason's arms.

Jason tried taking care of the dog; tried taking care of his mom; tried taking care of his dad when he came back; tried taking care of the house. Tried not crying.

Too much.

When his father eventually went to prison, Jason tried _harder_. He couldn't always manage not being scared, but he could always try being brave. You could be one without the other. And you could be both.

If nothing else, he'd learned being brave took a lot of guts. Took _something_ that was buried deep down inside, and just _needed_ a purpose to get out. Like doing the _right_ thing.

_That_ was a purpose – a _good_ purpose. That was _brave_, even when you were scared.

As Jason had gotten older he'd learned, and believed, that doing the wrong thing when you had the opportunity to do the right one, despite hurting yourself, or someone you loved – _making_ that choice, _picking_ the wrong road because it was _easier_ to travel, more _convenient_ not to care—was _cowardice_.

Jason knew all about that by now.

He'd been on the receiving end of those consequences for what felt like most of his life – both of them.

His father had been a thief and a gambler and a drunken bastard-liar who cared too much about the money, or the score, or the job, and the _street-cred_ than either his wife or his son.

His mother…had been too caught up in herself, too dependent on her addictions to care for her son, or care about what her husband was doing.

Taking care of her had taught Jason how to take care of himself even as it had hurt.

…Under his skin.

…

_On the inside_.

Because, for all the pain she'd caused him, and all the ways she'd let him down, he _loved_ her inexplicably, without hesitation.

…

Perhaps because, when she hadn't been incomprehensible, wide-eyed, pale and scaring him half to death, unmoving, grinning childishly – _high_ – she'd been…been _his mother_.

Wrapped her arms about his thin shoulders and pressed him close. Smiled beside his ear and said his name.

_"Jason._

_"Come _here_, let me _hug_ you—!"_

_"Mooooom—"_ before she planted a peck on his cheek and laughed, wandering off when he made to swat her away with one hand. She'd come back with cookies, or a sandwich, or juice, or water, or another hug, and helped him with his homework. While he'd still _had_ homework.

Jason had no memories like that of his father.

They'd done things together, sure. Maybe when he was very little they'd done father-son stuff. Whatever that might have entailed. Maybe he'd just been too little to remember.

He'd learned from his father's mistakes long ago, and had built up his own unique skill-set from the man's teachings and successes, which were the only memories of his father Jason had, excluding the more vivid bad ones.

His father had never been more than a frame of reference, and a thorn in young Jason's side, and a demon in his head, and a haunting visage of what his future had the potential of being.

Jason had taught himself to heed that image earnestly, and steer as clear of that path as he possibly could.

His father's was a cautionary tale Jason carried with him, but had no love for and did not dwell on. Instead there was a different figure that had become more prominent in Jason's life – in both of them – than his real – in the biological sense – father had ever been.

The same way his mother had been.

A man for looking up to and aspiring to be like. Whose back seemed even broader than his real father's had been where Jason's hands would rest, leading another body forward – after a late, gruelling patrol, Batman limping and stumbling forward even as Jason – as _Robin_ – tried keeping him upright until they got to the cave's Med Bay where Alfred could stitch the older vigilante up.

Bruce Wayne would pull back his cowl and smile at Jason, and Jason could _still_ feel the stretch of his skin from when his face would split into a returned grin, whenever he thought about that. Because when Bruce had left the house in the middle of the night, he was tracking down the thieves and lackeys and drug-dealers that were making the lives of kids like Jason hell, and locking them up where they couldn't hurt themselves or their families, or other innocent people's families, anymore. He was Batman, and Jason had admired and respected that – as much as he admired and respected…and _loved_ the man beneath the cowl.

He had vague recollections of one large, affectionate hand resting on his shoulder, squeezing.

_"Good work, Jason."_

Of training, and late nights, talking, and watching movies and—

Jason shook his head fervently, dragged his fingers through his hair and rested his forehead against the cool wooden door.

He was scared.

But he couldn't be a coward.

He needed to be brave, like he'd been when he was a kid – when his mom needed him, when his dad needed him. When Batman needed him.

He needed to be braver than Catherine Todd who couldn't overcome her drug-addiction to take care of her son. Braver than Willis Todd who couldn't get off his lazy ass and find a real job instead of going for easy money.

…Braver than Bruce Wayne. Batman. Who couldn't – _wouldn't_ – sacrifice a little of himself to get justice for the boy he called his partner, his _soldier_. His…son. Maybe.

…

The way Bruce had been, before he'd died… his…father.

If only _that_ wasn't also the reason why he was so damn _terrified_.

The fact of the matter was, Bruce supposedly dying the first time had shook and angered Jason to the point of lashing out in the only, ridiculously _childish_ manner he'd known, still openly clinging to things and flaunting beliefs he'd privately accepted his once-father and the man's legacy would never agree with and were never meant to portray.

Coming back from the dead, confronting Bats about not killing the Joker in the wake of Jason's murder, had left him with a searing sadness inside and a grudging increase of respect for the man whose partner he'd been.

Because for all that Bruce hadn't done the right thing, hadn't killed the Joker – for justice, for Jason, for all the innocent people he would hurt in the future (…Timmy…) – he hadn't done it _lightly_.

It had been a hard choice for him.

He hadn't picked a cowardly, easy way out even if Jason had thought so at first, and been disappointed in his father-figure.

Facing Bruce in that old, dilapidated apartment, Joker trussed up to a rickety chair and a bouquet of explosives ticking away at their feet—

Jason had spent weeks after the explosion, languidly recovering, while he tried figuring out how much of what Bruce had said the night of his return was real.

The man had never shown as much emotion wearing the cowl as he had that night, not even in the safety of his own cave – and in front of the Joker no less.

But Jason hadn't been sure if it had been real, or a ploy to placate him. To diffuse the situation and take him down.

Had he been lying when he'd confessed to considering killing the clown practically every day after Jason's death? Lying when he'd said it was too hard a choice to make, and the wrong one besides, because he – _Bruce_ – _had_ to sacrifice that desire, that _need_, to kill the Joker for his son – because Gotham needed a Batman with boundaries.

A Batman who couldn't lose control that way. He had to stay within the perimeters he'd set for himself; that the city had set for him. To be an example. To stay above the murderers and criminals he was meant to put away, and not become one himself, no matter how badly he _wanted_ to.

…

That was brave…

…

…?

Jason could, however grudgingly, _live with it_, he'd decided eventually.

He could live with that even as some part of him wasn't able to quell the flush of anger – or the stinging, bitter _hurt_ – colouring his insides whenever he thought about it, or came across Bruce or his brood on patrols.

Nightwing – Dick – who'd stared and grinned, and maybe even cried a little seeing Jason for the first time, even though Jason had tried forcing his father to shoot another man and then blew them all up as a peak in the performance.

Robin, Red Robin – Tim. Little Timmy who was just a _kid_. As if throwing Jason's memory away, calling him a failure and a mistake as if he had been some _botched experiment_, and then discarding him as a bad Robin and a _villain_ when he'd come back (_broken_…broken?), wasn't enough, Bats had _replaced_ him with a(nother) _kid_. Coming back from the dead, after _dying_ at _fifteen_, Jason had learned several things from both experiences: kids weren't _meant_ to be sidekicks, psychopaths didn't _deserve_ to live, and, the next time he bit the bullet, he was being cremated.

Beating Tim to a bloody pulp wasn't enough of a warning for Bruce though, because the kid stayed Robin, and after Bruce's supposed death, Dickiebird in all his self-righteous glory, had passed on the mantel to Bruce's biological little brat – Damian Wayne. He needed an outlet, was the sloppy excuse, and if Jason had thought it would make any kind of difference he'd have done more to argue the point – but then, he'd concluded at last, what did it matter; he wasn't family any more.

Besides which, a little more time finally taught them that lesson while Jason had still mostly been struggling with Bruce's miraculous return from his time-traveling odyssey, anyway.

Not dead then, after all.

Nothing much had changed between them, either. Jason was still Bruce's biggest mistake, and, spitefully, painfully, Jason was still the thorn in his "old man's" side.

…

Jason had never said "I told you so" even though he'd felt the words scratching at the back of his throat several times. Because Jason knew what it felt like.

Losing family.

He'd lost Bruce…more than once. _Been _lost, and been abandoned, more than once.

He felt that loss – _keenly _– whenever their paths crossed.

But he could hardly admit it when nothing had changed for Bruce. He was still _dead_. He would always be fifteen year old Jason Todd, status_ deceased_.

It took losing another Robin for Dick to attempt crossing the bridge and inviting him back over, but…even though Jason had made uneasy peace with Bruce's inability to avenge _any of them_, apparently, he could never admit as much to the man's face – not even _after_ his regret when he'd believed Bruce to be dead – and neither was Bruce about to welcome him back with open arms no matter what Dick wanted to believe.

The best they could do was co-exist relatively peacefully – Bats and his brood on one side of the city, and Jason, discarded and secretly still damaged, ruling the other side.

He still didn't _know_ what the _hell_ had possessed him, to _cross_ that carefully, tentatively placed line, and march right up to the Bat's damn _house_ like it partially _belonged_ to him; more or less eight months ago now.

Perhaps a bizarre suicidal tendency had overtaken him. Perhaps he'd simply been lost…_adrift_ without direction. Which better way to go than home…?

Jason's heart ached at the thought.

He opened his eyes, not knowing when they'd closed, and stared at the wooden door.

This wasn't home. It had been, _once_, but he had no right to it any longer.

He hadn't been brave enough to fight for it. He hadn't been strong enough to forgive his sort-of-father, couldn't give up his own beliefs and forget. Couldn't go back to following the Bat's rules – and would it really have been such a bad choice? It would have been easy…

Cowardly?

Really?

Locking up Gotham's scumbags rather than sending them straight to the hell they deserved, if it _gave him_ what he _wanted_?

If it allowed him _home_?

…_Yes_.

Fuckit, _yes_. _Always_ yes.

Because his way had been the _right_ way. The right way for him, for Gotham, and he couldn't live with himself if he just _let_ so many murderous, drug-peddling _bastards_ rot in jail for a little bit only to come back out and wreak a hell of a revenge on new innocent people just because Jason craved his family back.

There were other people who deserved families more than he did.

He'd always known that.

So _why_ he'd come looking for his old one that day he couldn't _begin_ to fathom.

And it scared him.

It had scared him ending up here with no purpose. And now it scared him because he was here with reason for a change.

Moreover, he'd been…well, he'd bloody well been _invited_. Fucking _summoned_, in fact.

Because…because it was different this time.

The old man was _really_…dying this time.

His…his _father_ was—

Jason had to suck in a breath and turn his back on the door, clenching a fist against his forehead, eyes shut again, unable to finish the thought.

He breathed, _deep_, through his nose, and let it out in a huff, eyes opening to the snow-covered grounds, hands settling on his hips, a rigid tenseness in his shoulders. He rolled them back and forth uneasily, rubbed at the back of his neck with cold fingers – he'd put his gloves somewhere he couldn't remember, which was stupid, but—

Not important.

…

Jason took another breath, letting it out slowly this time, as his gaze roamed across the snow, the footsteps he'd left – a solitary trail, pausing to backtrack at irregular intervals, before turning around _again_ and _again_, and _again_, to create a dizzying mirage of stomping, trudging, sauntering feet belonging to more than one person, all of them crowding together and moving this way and that without anyone moving back and only one making it forwards.

Jason swallowed.

There was no more going back.

He was already here and he _needed_ to do this. _Selfishly_, he _wanted_ to – because this wouldn't be for anyone other –well, mostly – than him.

He needed to be brave for himself, to be _honest_ for a change – with _Bruce_, with himself, with the dead fifteen year old kid that didn't exist anymore and wasn't important no matter how much he'd thought he was or wanted to be.

There wouldn't _be_ another chance to settled this; once and for all.

Jason spun, boots sliding around and clearing a patch of snow from the porch, leaving white slush in a heap.

It was Cassandra who opened the door when he knocked – _finally_ – almost at once, and Jason wondered if she'd been standing on the other side just waiting for him to pluck up the courage.

He swallowed again, throat unexpectedly dry, palms sweaty despite his cold, numb fingers.

She peered up at him, brown eyes squinting, and Jason would have opened his mouth to snap at her to stop it if he'd had any fire left in his gut, but…everything was cold and unfeeling at the thought of what he meant to do. As if he'd quite suddenly shut right down inside, like that would make it easier – not thinking about it, not feeling anything.

Lips thinning as she regarded him, her eyes darting this way and that between his own had Jason shifting his weight, unable to contain all of his discomfort – she was _reading_ him, he knew that. Like a damn book, and he didn't like it – until finally she shook her head, quickly, averted her gaze and stepped back, pulling the door further open as she went.

She was wearing a faded brown sweater at least three sizes too big for her small frame, the sleeve bundled up in the palm of her hand, held out for him in invitation.

Jason bit at his lip, staring at the clear entryway into the gloomy foyer with a bout of apprehension chewing away too quickly at his calm disassociation.

He was anxious and scared all over again.

He hadn't set foot in the manor since _before he'd died_.

He hadn't _expected_, in that damned warehouse, feeling all alone even as he held onto his biological mother as best he could, intent on shielding her from the imminent explosion as best he could – for some reason he could not, afterward, _fathom_, or regret – to ever set foot in the manor again.

And then, much later still, he hadn't thought he ever wanted to again.

That part of his life was over. That Jason was gone.

He didn't want to—

He _couldn't_—

Swallowing reflexively, for the third time in as many minutes, Jason made to move – _forward_, for goodness' sake, but—

There was an itch in his throat, and a hitch in his breath, and his fingers were twitching and—

He thought he could feel every tic of his muscles, every blood-pumping beat of his heart, the expansion and contraction of his lungs as he breathed, and every pause between—

His lips were trembling—

A little sway, a stutter, to his shoulders, his knees, when he _meant_ to step forward, but didn't—

And then all the air in his lungs came out in a _rush_, shoulders slumping, his body just _falling _forward of its own accord as he bent over, one palm hitting the still-closed door on his right and the other making a _smacking_ sound that seemed to echo in his ears as he hit his forehead.

_I can't_—stuck somewhere in his head or halted on the tip of his tongue, or maybe he had said it after all, he didn't know—

He clutched at his hair, yanked a little, and bit into his lip, and shut his eyes tight until all of it just _hurt_, before he could breathe again and straighten up.

It hadn't occurred to him until he'd opened his eyes and found the entryway right in front of him still empty, how awful it would have been if someone had, in the meantime, entered the room.

The clench in his chest eased at the knowledge that no one had.

There was still Cassandra, of course, half-hidden behind the door as she'd been the very first time he'd seen her, her inviting gesture dropped and her gaze, he was embarrassingly thankful to see, on the wooden tiles at her feet.

Jason was just contemplating what he could possibly use to back-up a threat accompanied by "don't tell anyone I was here," and then sprint off, when she looked up – _sharply_, and narrowed her eyes almost imperceptibly at him before she'd _moved_—

Out from behind the door, her sleeve-clad fingers grasping firmly around his wrist, forcing him forward as she pulled—

Jason pulled back – a quick, _angry_ flick of his wrist, and, almost _instinctively_, unintentionally – _habitually_ – he tapped into that trickle of seemingly ever-present anger, letting it spur him ahead, acting with it as his driving force – like he always seemed to do; like he'd always_ seemed _to do—

"_Let go_, I don't need your damn help—"

He'd tracked snow across Alfred's immaculately polished floor with a jerky pause at the door, a scowl at Cassandra, another deep breath, and a determined set to his jaw as he finally crossed the threshold – only to halt, several steps into the dimly lit foyer, with a shuddering breath at the realization of what he'd done.

He rounded on Cassandra, furious, and scowled at her, blunt nails digging into the skin of his palms—

She was only _just_ not grinning at him, the smug expression hovering at the edge of her features even as there lingered a hint of sympathy in her dark eyes. It only turned Jason's scowl deeper, and he looked pointedly away, but couldn't do much more than that – sound stuck in his throat, unable to escape and form words or sentences, and his limbs felt stiff and weighted, disabling movement.

He was stuck. Stuck in the foyer of a house he'd once called home, that had felt more home than any place had been before or after, for longer than any other place had ever felt.

And he remembered – trudging down the staircase, wrist trailing along the banister, and not a trace of dust on the end of his sleeve when he checked at the bottom.

When he'd only just arrived, Alfred would find him at the foot of the steps and greet him with a formal nod, and Jason – what had he been; twelve? – short, scrawny-ass kid, nervous as all hell and chewing at the inside of his cheek till it bled, would sort of nod back and almost smile, and try really, really hard not to cry like a damn baby because it had been several weeks already since he found his mom, pale in a different way than the usual, not breathing – taking him all of three minutes to realise she was _dead_, and five more before he couldn't hold back the tears any longer, and fifteen more before he trailed off, no longer whispering at her to _come back, dammit, don't leave me_, but she was – _not_ coming back, and he _wasn't_ a baby anymore, and he couldn't _still_ be crying over her. Especially not in front of strangers.

Only, things had been so _new_ and unfamiliar, and strange, and he missed her _more_ because of it, and he felt guilty as _sin_, because things were _better_ for him now – better than she'd ever managed to make it, better than his dad had ever tried to have it – and if he'd known, if he'd _known_, trying to jack the Bat's wheels was all it would take to make things _better_ he'd have done it a long time ago instead of trying to stay good and straight for his mom—

Jason blinked. And couldn't breathe.

Alfred would lead him into the kitchen just around the stairs, through a doorway down the hall, into a pristine white palace Jason didn't want to touch for fear of leaving smudges even though he knew, in the back of his mind, his hands were clean. He had decent baths nowadays—

Jason sucked in a heady breath of air—

Alfred would present him with freshly-prepared meals, enough to ignite his taste buds with unique and never-tasted-before flavours, and leaving him with the supposed certain promise of more to come when next his tummy rumbled.

Jason would smile gratefully, but watch the food with a trickle of apprehension before digging in, chewing around the guilt that came inexplicably with having food and a table to sit at when he'd been digging through dumpsters not a week ago, because _he was still hungry_, and barely a week from now he might yet find himself in front of that very same dumpster again.

Stretching his healing chest almost painfully—

So he ate everything presented no matter what kind of delicious or faintly atrocious taste it may have left in his mouth, from the medium-rare meat and steamed vegetables to Alfred's neatly squared waffles, pasty as they tasted.

Jason remembered; eventually, when he went back to school, and got back into reading – how excited he was when Bruce came back from Wayne Enterprises one evening, presenting him with a book he could keep, for himself. In the foyer they'd been.

Right around where he was standing now—

And Alfred's fine cuisine had extended from formal recipe books to fictional meals conjured up as if by magic with his old capable hands, like they had drawn the plates straight from the stories. On any and every day Alfred could manage it.

He _couldn't_—

Have any of it back—

Remember it—

Eventually, Jason was only just not _bounding_ down the staircase, long since not bothered by what unfathomable means Alfred was using to keep the place immaculate – because he had in fact picked up a few of them himself at this point – eager to see what meal the butler had pulled off the pages _this_ morning—

The thought struck him without warning, catching his breath in his throat – chicken.

Alfred had fed him chicken for breakfast on his last day in the manor.

_"'Bet they don't have chicken for breakfast at the White House',"_ he'd quoted jokily, guessing as he did every morning what book his meal had come from – Harper Lee's _To Kill a Mockingbird_. Alfred had smiled, which he did more often than Jason thought – now – they ever gave him credit for.

He'd washed his dishes and gone down to the cave after that meal. And he'd trained, and he'd studied.

Jason remembered the way he'd studied when he was a kid – Batman's formulas and chemicals and solutions, case files, and theoretical manoeuvres he needed to know the make-up of before he could even _think_ about trying it in training. Jason had tried hard to impress, to always improve; to live up to the image of Robin Golden Boy Dick Grayson had left behind, but in the – three? – years he'd lived in this house, Jason wasn't sure he ever had.

He'd thought he had, somewhere in the middle—

Somewhere around the time he could curl up on one of the wide window-sills in B's office to read, and recite all the facts around their current case at once if prompted without missing a beat in his reading, and looking up only to catch the slightest wisp of a sly smile on his father's – mentor's – lips.

Around the time Dick would come by, and take the blame as instigator for their races down the railings, and he'd smile like a goofy moron when Jason did a successful flip off the highest beam, landing in a perfect roll, before he'd ruffle Jason's hair and say something stupid like _"Nice,"_ and calling him _"Little Wing,"_ making Jason wonder for a moment why the hell he even disliked the guy in the first place—

Until he'd get caught in a bad argument with Bruce before the end of the day again, and Jason would be vaguely reminded of his parents, in a comparison where Dick had turned into his father and Bruce was his mother and things were just _better_ when Dick went back to Blüdhaven—

And Jason could pick up that slack Dick had left – as Bruce's _son_, if that's what he'd really been – and _Robin_, because Jason _was_ Robin now, and he _was_ Bruce's son now. He tried.

He _had_.

—

Jason couldn't breathe.

His chest heaved anxiously up and down as he sucked in air he could somehow not _feel_ breathing in, even as he _knew_ his lungs were being filled—

_"Good work, Jason."_

That was—

There were too many memories here, and for _years_ he'd had no reason to look back on them – that Jason was gone, that Jason was _dead_, he didn't _want_—

He couldn't—_have any of it back—_

_Live_ in that past; there was no future there—

_Here_—

He had to—

He _couldn't_—

He'd—been kidding himself that he could—

He'd—

He'd rounded his back on the foyer and half-run, half-stumbled past Cassandra and whatever expression her face wore, whatever she thought she saw in him _now_, and shuffled through the snow, tripped down the porch's steps to land, hard, on his knees, bloodless naked fingers sinking into wet snow as he bent over, gasping for air—

"I can't breathe—" he mumbled. "Can't breathe, I can't—

"I can't breathe—

"I can't breathe—" even as he swallowed big gulps of air.

"I can't breathe," he drew his head down to his knees, pulled his arms, his freezing hands, in closer.

"I can't breathe…"

He could feel the frown across his forehead.

Saw darkness he couldn't recall invoking.

"…You breathe…fine," Cassandra's voice was soft, to his right, and her hand gentle on his back.

Jason shook his head, though at what he didn't know. He _was_ breathing fine, the row of immaculate stitching across his chest stretching with every rise and fall evidence thereof despite the _hammering_ heart in his chest feeling like the _only_ thing inside doing any work to keep him alive.

It was cold outside, in the air, and around his fingers, and through his soaking knees in the snow. And the light outside was only marginally better than it had been inside. And the breeze ghosted past him – them – touching only quickly.

Cassandra was rubbing circles across his back and Jason wondered if Dick had taught her that, or…had her assassin-father been affectionate?

Jason opened his eyes.

"Stop that," he mumbled, if only half-heartedly, as he shrugged his shoulder and got languidly to his feet; Cassandra coming nimbly to her own, hand retreated without comment.

Jason ran his fingers through his hair, eyed her beyond the view of his raised arm. She was watching him, the way she watched everyone, he could only assume, and he knew he was already thinking it, _planning_ on doing it, and so she must already have seen it – read it on him the way she could read everyone. It was vexing, and made him feel incredibly vulnerable, the way she needed no more than a look to know what he intended, when, for years, he'd trained so hard to mask his intentions.

Since there was no point with her, though, and no way of pretending he didn't know what he wanted to do now, he might as well just go ahead with it.

"Don't follow me," Jason said, much more intently than he might have before, as he dropped his hand and started off, pointedly not meeting her eyes and finding himself surprised when she didn't immediately try to stop him. With his back fully to her, he rubbed his palms over aching, freezing fingers in an attempt to warm them some, before sticking his hands in his jacket pockets – all the while keeping an ear out for following footfalls, feeling an itch between his shoulder blades that must have been Cassandra's stare. But apparently that's as much as she did.

He assumed.

Right up to his sixth or seventh pace away, when a wet white mass landed with a hard _smack_ against the back of his neck—

Jason _yelped_, and hissed, as the cold started slinking down the back of his shirt almost at once. He'd already stopped walking, arching his back at the invasive coolness of ice on his skin, tugging at the back of his shirt to force it to the ground quicker.

"_What_—" he started, "—the _hell_?" as he turned about, meaning to fix the girl at his back with as intense a glare as he could conjure, only to be interrupted with another flurry of frost hurtled his way. Jason only just managed raising his arm in time to stop the projectile from colliding with his face.

"Would you quit throwing me with snow?!" he snapped, lowering his arm only slightly in case she had every intention of hitting him again.

But Cassandra, shorter though she was, stood several paces away, drawn up to her full height, shoulders squared and looking every inch the fear-inducing Black Bat of Gotham's dark streets, even in her too-big sweater with its rolled-up sleeves slipping down her arms.

Jason swallowed, and dropped his arm carefully, finding himself on the receiving end of the glare he'd never quite gotten to mastering.

He scowled back, and might have said something if not for the need to protect his face again, Cassandra hurtling the snowball in her hand at him.

"_Come_—" she said, loud even though her voice _sounded_ small, and like it could never possess so much volume.

"_In_—"

"Hey—" Jason moved closer, batting at a second – or, fourth – snowball with his arm.

"—_side!_" Cassandra snapped, and Jason ducked beneath her next assault. Gathering as much snow as he could, as tightly as he could, in both hands, he threw it almost aimlessly at her as he came erect, missing, of course, when Cassandra dodged effortlessly.

"Are you _freaking_ kidding me?!" he exclaimed, frustrated, and angry all over again, "Did you not _see_ that?!" he asked, gesturing at the door behind her with one embarrassingly trembling hand.

He held it there, hovering mid-air.

Cassandra already had two more snowballs clenched in each hand, but he'd apparently gotten her attention enough she didn't feel the need to pelt him with them – yet, at least.

"...I _can't_," Jason started, slowly, into the stretching silence between them, "Go back in there."

Cassandra's lips thinned in response, her fingers twitching tighter into the snow.

Jason threw his hands up, exasperated, "_Seriously!_ I don't know _why_, okay? But that _damn_ house—" he pointed a set of fingers at it sharply, "And—"

It was all the memories. All of them just rushing back to him at once, and he couldn't will them away like he'd been doing for years, trying to put little now-dead Jason Todd to rest and leave him buried. He'd succeeded, a little, but he'd left Jason _inside_ that house, and going back in again would only wake him up further. It wasn't fair.

"I just _can't_!" he said at last, almost pleading and not knowing why he was pleading at _her_. Until a couple months ago he'd never even _seen_ Cassandra Cain face to face. They'd spoken all of _once_, before, and part of Jason seethed at having to apparently explain himself to _anyone_ at all.

The larger part of him, though, felt _rotten_, and guilty, and needed to make its case, and—

He'd come with reason, and _intention_ – he'd been _asked_ to come, and he'd said he would, and he'd _meant_ to keep that commitment. He'd meant to be brave. He'd meant to try.

But, entering the house had left him more afraid than he'd been before he'd set foot inside, when the only fear he'd had was never seeing his once-father again and telling him—

Whatever the hell Jason decided on once he got there.

Jason hadn't expected it would be so hard to come through the door of his destination, however – hadn't expected to be bombarded with a hoard of happy memories he'd thought he'd buried next to dying.

And now he was intent on breaking his promise because he couldn't manage to deal with his past.

Perhaps if he'd had more unpleasant experiences in the manor it would have been easier to shrug it off, be dismissive of the entire building, regarding it with a cool aloofness and flip it off when he went away – his spat, or heart-to-heart, or whatever the hell it would have been, with the old man settled and done.

But the manor had been his home. And entering it now reminded him of that home. Of what it had meant, and—

And could it still…?

Dick always being so _adamant_ that he was family.

Alfred had said the same thing. Replacement had damn well _invited_ him inside months ago.

…

Cassandra had commanded just a moment earlier.

"I can't," Jason breathed, shaking his head, defeated. He dragged a hand across his face, frowning at the whiteness around his boots. Footsteps still lay haphazardly in the snow, from when he'd arrived; turning as if to go back, only to decide at last there _was_ no more going back.

Only, he'd been wrong. It seemed, there was no more going forward.

He was just _here_, now.

…

Gotham needed someone cruel to keep her in line. Jason was the only one who could be that and not lose his head over it, too. He kept _other_ families safe, the way he always had in red, and green, and yellow – he couldn't have his own, too. Not when they didn't want him as he was, anyway.

Neither of them deserved that mess.

…

…

Silence, so long he thought maybe Cassandra had left him alone, until a fistful's worth of snow hit him in the leg.

Jason sighed.

"Will you _stop_ throwing shit at me?" he snarled, looking up sharply – and recoiling instantly when another handful hit him in the chest, "_Cassandra_—"

Presumably relieved of all her ammo, sweater-sleeves hiding her hands again, Cassandra stood thin-lipped, and frowning, her shoulders slumped—

"This is…_your_ fault," she said, carefully, slowly, but…_firmly_.

Jason stared. "Like _hell_ it is," he breathed, fingers curling into fists.

"_You_ do this!" Cassandra continued, though, almost not giving him chance to finish and cutting off whatever else Jason might have tried to say. "_Our_ family," she went on, haltingly, swinging one hand half behind her, indicating the manor, "Is…_broken_. All it wants, is—you—everyone—here, and – but—" she shook her head, shoulders hunching, shifting her weight from one foot to another, "You want—" she squinted, and frowned, and shook her head, "I don't, I can't…_see_ – you don't, know, either, I—" she had her hands up in front of her, fingers peeking out of the sleeves, reaching and clenching like she meant to grab hold of the words she was looking for in her palms.

"You could – I don't—_fix_, it?"

Jason shook his head slightly, not knowing what to say to her. It wasn't…it wasn't as _easy_ as that. It wasn't as simple.

There was too much to "fix," and not enough _time_ to wade through all of their issues, and too much pride to sweep it under a rug and hug and call it done—

"Cassandra," Jason began, stepping forward, one hand raised, placating, but Cassandra shook her head again, expression crumbling—

"Then _leave!_" her voice cracked, and she dropped briefly to her haunches, grabbing at snow, tossing it half-heartedly at him. Again and again, "Don't come—_back_!" Jason visibly started at the words, suddenly quite aware that no one had actually ever _chased him away_ before. They hadn't _needed_ to, in so many words – he was the Bat's big failure, his one mistake; an outlaw from the family, a son disowned for the way he could no longer condone and follow his father's antiquated, ineffective code of moral justice.

They hadn't said it, but the Bat had never needed to use words with his Robins – Jason had always just _known_. He could read the cowl almost better than the man's actual face, and just as well as any book. Batman – _Bruce_ – had never _needed_ to _tell_ Jason to leave. He'd only needed to look at him, and he had, too many times.

Jason already _knew_ he wasn't welcome, knew he _couldn't_ be, but—

—inexplicably, _hearing_ the words _hurt_.

"You always c-come—back," Cassandra sniffed, and breathed, and fixed him with a glare that made Jason feel like he was thirteen again and had done something _stupid_, even though the corners of her eyes were glittering with moisture. "Always want to—but, you won't, _help_, so—_stay_," she tossed more snow at him, hands jerking with frustration, the edges of her sleeves wet, "_Away_!"

More snow.

Jason dropped his gaze, his hands still clenched tightly, but all the anger having rushed to the surface when she'd laid the blame at his feet, had evaporated in the interim – instead, he had his shoulders hunched, and his teeth grit, lips dry and his ears burning—

He didn't know what to say.

…

He didn't know how to _fix it_—

When he couldn't even enter the house—

When he couldn't—

Cassandra had chucked a last chunk of ice in his direction and turned on her heel, rushing away, up the stairs, almost colliding with Tim, who Jason hadn't even noticed sneaking up on them.

Jason watched, feeling intrusive, when the kid caught her by her shoulders, sounding concerned – Cassandra in the way, he couldn't see Tim's face, "Cass?"

Her short hair shifted this way and that when she shook her head, and curled herself out of Tim's loose grip, slipping around him and disappearing across the threshold, Tim half-turned back to watch her go.

Jason couldn't move. He hadn't seen Tim since before the Joker had—

_Had what…?_

Jason hadn't bothered finding out, he didn't _want_ to know.

Tim turned back to face him and Jason took a breath as he did, not sure what to expect on the younger boy's face, but—

There was nothing.

No scars on his skin, or bruises, or marks, and – and Tim didn't carry himself in any way suggesting he'd been beaten to a bloody pulp with a crowbar, made to _watch_ the timer that was counting down the last seconds of his life, before the big Bat could swoop in and save him with time to spare—

He _was_ thinner though, than when Jason had last seen him in civvies.

Jason blinked, drew himself up, carefully unclenching his fists as Tim took the steps down to meet him.

"What did you do?" Tim asked plainly, but there was no demand or accusation in his tone.

Jason scanned the kid's face, looking for something he didn't know – something just…_felt_, wrong about the kid. "I—" he started all the same, perhaps intent on defending himself, when really…he had no idea how to explain. He'd screwed up again. That's what it was. "Nothing," he said firmly, snapped almost, pushing aside some of the hurt from Cassandra's words, and the surprise, and uncertainty, doubt, _fear_, false bravery, he'd been lugging around all day. He didn't want another spat, especially, somehow, not with Tim – who'd been offering him juice, and inviting him in and getting his wrist twisted for his troubles; maybe if Jason had offered they share notes on the drug case after all, worked together, Joker wouldn't have been able to—

He shook his head, angry. _No_.

"I was just leaving."

"No," Tim said, like he was answering a question. "You have to see Batsy, c'mon," Jason frowned at the address, and Tim's audacity, grabbing him by the front of his jacket and tugging as he made for the house—

Jason didn't budge, caught him by the wrist, bending slightly forward so as to meet the kid's eyes better, "_Tim_."

Tim looked at him briefly, dropped his gaze to Jason's hand around his arm, and his own hand on Jason's jacket before he released the fabric, and Jason let go of him as well. He met Jason's eyes, brows pinched, lips twisted into a frown before, slowly, they curled into a grin instead.

"I forgot."

Jason eyed the kid carefully, but he could never have predicted Tim's actions—

He lunged at him, and Jason moved instinctively to defend himself against an attack that never came, because Tim was not _attacking_ him. Instead, the teenager had caught Jason about the waist, arms locked tight _in a_ _hug_, his chin against Jason's shoulder, and Jason—

Stood awkwardly with his mouth open and his arms hovering aimlessly in the air.

"Uh…" Jason stared at what he could see of the boy's unruly mop of black hair from the corner of his eye, his hands moving to touch Tim's unspeakably thin wrists at his back, intent on _prying_ him loose, but, for all that he'd definitely lost some muscle mass, the kid still had an intensely good grip – and he wasn't about to just _let go_, either. "Imitating Dickie, Pretender?" Jason scoffed, more than a little bite to it. Tim hardly noticed – if anything, he squeezed a little tighter. Jason didn't really want to _yank_ him away, for fear of bruising the boy, but he could hardly stand much more of this either.

He caught sight of Cassandra in the doorway then, eyes red, jaw clenched, and he felt—

Guilty.

"You're bruising my ribs, here, kid, c'mon," he said at last, tugging on Tim's sleeve. Replacement let him go almost at once, with a gasp and a yelp, taking two steps back, onto the porch, holding his hands close to his chest, biting hard at his bottom lip.

"S-Sorry, I didn't mean to, um, do that – or, um—" Tim stumbled over his words, eyes on where he'd been latched onto Jason just now, making the older man shift his shoulders, uncomfortable under the intent gaze.

"_Please_," he scoffed, thus, playing it off as best he could. He straightened his jacket, brushed it off for something to do, "Like I bruise that easy," he waved a hand dismissively. "What's the matter, kid? Dickie skimping out on annual cuddles, so you're jacking 'em wherever you can get away with it?"

Jason grinned at him, lopsided and snide, the way he was used to.

"Um," Tim blinked, meeting Jason's eyes, and then – he _giggled_. High-pitched, and in a way that made Jason's insides quaver like they hadn't in a _while_.

At once he was no longer grinning. Cassandra's eyes had gone wide, Jason noticed. Tim, almost immediately, had slapped both hands over his mouth with a loud, probably not entirely painless, _smack_.

He was still giggling though, hiccupping as he tried in vain _not to_, shoulders shaking, eyes shutting tight and opening, blinking, gathering tears on his lashes—

"Replacement?" Jason tried, half-raising a hand, taking one cautious step up, coming just a little bit closer—

"Timmy—" Cassandra had her arms around Tim from behind before Jason could do much more, her nimble fingers working at the kid's own, trying to loosen the grip he had on his face – but Tim clutched tighter, his nails scratching at his pale cheeks, and the back of one hand, leaving lines slowly reddening.

"Let it out—" Jason heard Cassandra say, urgent if quiet. He stared, at a loss for what to do, or what was happening—

Tim rocked forward, back, tried turning his head, shifting his shoulders, lifting his elbows to shrug Cassandra off – she wouldn't budge—

Tim was hunched forward, looking smaller to Jason than even Cassandra was, despite being the same height, Tim's shoulders broader—

He blinked, hard and fast, tears trailing down his cheeks, colliding with his clawing fingers—

"_Let_ it _out_—" Cassandra hissed at him, digging her fingers in between Tim's hands, but getting no further—

Tim was still _giggling_, louder and faster, sounding more strangled every second shudder as he tried hard to suppress it. He sounded just like…like _Tim_, but _unlike_ Tim, and Jason—

Couldn't take it anymore.

"_Timmy_," he'd half-snapped, half-pled, before he knew he'd done it, and grabbed the kid by a shoulder with one hand – Tim gave a startled yell in between the giggles, hands springing free from his mouth, and his body hunching, dipping back, out of Cassandra's hold—

Tim had spun around and run inside the manor, up the staircase before Jason had more than blinked, leaving them with another stuttered apology, and the echoes of his laughing, sobbing, choking voice bouncing off the walls as he fled.

Jason stood, dumbfounded, watching him go, only then becoming aware of the quickness of his breathing, the drumming of his heart—

"What the hell?" he mumbled at Cassandra, half-heartedly gesturing the stairs inside.

Her lips thinned, her gaze on the porch in thought, before she looked back to the staircase, and back around at Jason, her brown eyes sweeping over all of him before settling on his eyes, "He's—" she looked away, the motion almost abrupt with the way she cut off as well, and Jason couldn't help but think, with their earlier exchange, maybe she wasn't about to tell him after all. But then—

"…Grateful…you know," she shrugged one shoulder and frowned at the floor.

Jason frowned, too, not sure what she was on about now, "What?"

Cassandra glanced at him, unperturbed by his confusion, "Dick, told him…you found him, he's…grateful," she said, shortly.

Jason's shoulders slumped, his still-hovering hands dropping to his sides. "Oh." A beat passed. "But, what just – I mean, with the—" he brought his hands back up, unable to find the words, exactly, "He was—just—what _the hell_?" he asked again, voice tight, and when Cassandra regarded him, brows knit together, it was with a vague look of pity Jason wasn't sure was for _him_, or actually Tim. There was anger there, too, though – _that_, Jason was sure was meant for him.

"The…Joker, he…" she started, slowly, and Jason swallowed. "You don't, _want_ to know," she shook her head, looked away again. "You didn't _like_ the thought, before…_less_, now."

Jason had clenched his hands without realising.

"And, you don't like…when I—" she looked back at him, just a shift of her eyes.

"_Read me_ like a damn book—no, I don't," he snapped, glaring at her.

She ducked her head, fingers peeking out the sleeves of her over-sized sweater to play at the hems.

Jason loosened his fists; spoke more quietly, "You can't help it…can you?"

Jason watched her suck in a breath through her nose, and let it out slowly. She shrugged.

"Dick said, once…" she lifted her head, but kept her eyes averted. "_Language_…is not something, you _un_learn. When you've known it…forever. He can…no more _not_ understand a…_different_ language he hears, on…_accident_, than _I_ can…_stop_…" she met his eyes, "_Seeing_. It's…_hearing_, to me. And I, wouldn't _want_, to. Stop. It makes me…" she squinted at nothing, as if she could find the word there. "Better," she said at last, nodding firmly.

Jason frowned, "Better? At what…?"

"Being Batman," she replied simply, as though it should have been obvious.

An exasperated little growl crept up Jason's throat before he could stop it, "Cassandra—" he started.

"Cass," she interrupted, and he paused. "Call me, Cass."

"Er—" he blinked at her, heat rising up his neck, touching his ears, the memory of her words from before still echoing in his head, and the redness about her eyes still too fresh from the tears he'd caused her—

What the hell was she seeing in him now that made her give him permission to call her by a nickname?

"Cass…sandra," he mumbled awkwardly, looked away, paused again. "You shouldn't be… '_being Batman_' – you're a _kid_, you should," he waved a hand, "Be in school or something—"

"I'm _your_ age," she interrupted plainly.

"Well, that's just—" he scowled. She was short, and thin, and a dozen different kinds of lethal, he knew full well, but with her small frame he'd guessed her no older than Tim. Younger, even. Another teenager. Another _kid_, fighting Batman's war. "…Still," he muttered lamely, shifting his shoulders, stuffing his hands in his pockets, long since having forgotten the mild chill clinging to his fingers. He still couldn't quite meet her eyes again, "You didn't…ask for this." _None of us did, not really. None of us knew _what_ we were asking for._

"No," she agreed. "I was…_made_. For it," not a hint of self-deprecation in the statement, and Jason had to look up, a little surprised. "It's…what I am. And, if I can…_use_ that. To help," she watched him, pointedly, and her eyes were pools of deep dark brown, pulling him under. "I know _you_ understand."

Jason swallowed, and looked away, because he did. He _did_ understand. It's the only reason any of them did anything – _helping_. Everyone but themselves.

"You don't…_have_ to," she said, earnestly, and her dark eyes were filled again with moisture when Jason dared to look up, "Do this alone."

Jason flinched, when she raised her hand to him, palm up, the sleeve of her sweater pulled back far enough he could see all her fingers. But his breath was stuck in his throat again at the offer she was making—

He clenched his hands to stop his fingers from trembling, and shook his head as much as he could manage – feeling frozen again, one boot in the snow and his other foot on the nearest stair—

"I don't know—_how_, to fix it," he whispered at her fingers. "I _can't_—" he breathed.

"_Please_," she whispered back, and grabbed him by the front of his jacket. "Just _try_," she insisted, quietly—

Jason had ducked his head, could see her feet on the edge of the porch – she wasn't wearing any shoes, and her bare toes seemed to be reaching toward the first step down like she was about to come even closer though he could already feel her breath against his forehead. Her toenails were bright blue.

"I'm…_with you_," she said, and he shook his head at the sincerity in her tone, "_Nothing_…will happen to you – in there. We're…_your family_, Jason—"

"No—" he whispered.

"You promised," she said, and he shook his head, eyes closed, until she finished, "_Alfred_."

The breath he sucked in at that both caught and didn't, in his throat, making a noise close to sobbing—

He ducked his head farther, pressed his eyes closed tighter, and clenched his fingers around Cassandra's strong wrists—

She was right.

He _had_ promised Alfred.

A short, frustrated sound escaped his throat, and when he opened his eyes his vision was hazy, unfocused—

"That was low," he said to the ground, voice rough. He blinked, and _blinked_, and let go of Cassandra's wrists and pressed his palms against his eyelids.

"I'm sorry," she replied, but didn't release the grip on his jacket.

"No, you're not," he said, sharp and unforgiving when he finally straightened up.

She said nothing to the contrary, but stepped backwards, pulling him up the porch and closer to the threshold by his lapels, and he followed, trance-like, without protest.

He walked right up the doorway, saw the staircase cast in shadow over her shoulder, and caught hold of her wrist again, stopping in his tracks.

He breathed in, deep, and her hold on his jacket loosened until it was nothing but the press of her fingertips against the fabric, feather-light on the outside of his chest, while his heart pounded again, harshly on the inside.

She watched him carefully, and he felt stripped to the bone, like her dark eyes were reflecting the depths of his soul she was looking right into—

"I'm scared," he admitted, scarcely louder than a whisper, and unintentionally besides – not to mention, she'd probably already seen it, anyway—

She nodded, which came as no surprise, but said then, "So are we…" which did.

It was several loud heartbeats later, the silence seeming eternal between them, before Jason could manage to move again, stepping around her through the doorway, into the foyer proper—

—he breathed—

—chest heaving painfully as he looked around—

He felt dizzy—

Faint—

He was turned around a moment later, not sure whether he was about to go stumbling from the house a second time, or if he was going to spill his breakfast over Alfred's nice clean floor, when—

Cassandra – Cass – was right in front of him, her fingers cool against his suddenly clammy face, her palms pressed against the line of his jaw—

"You're…_alright_," she insisted, and he blinked, tried to focus on her eyes swimming in front of him. "Jason—"

His fingers twitched – against the skin of her wrists though he didn't remember reaching for them again—

His eyes were closed; his brow furrowed, his forehead, oddly, pressed against hers—

"_Breathe_," she kept whispering at him, and he did—in deep, and out slow, trying to keep it even—"Just breathe, little brother—"

He blinked his eyes open at that, pulled away slightly, and stared at her, surprised, "Huh."

Jason's gaze drifted—his heart no longer beating too frantically at its cage, but his thoughts catching up to his actions and wondering what the hell he was doing—to the doorway on his right, leading off to what he remembered as sort of a lounge, with a wall-length bookcase housing no actual _stories_—

_"Then what's the point of all these…?"_

_"Master Bruce often entertains guests here, young sir. As a prominent social figure and business icon, he has a certain image to maintain. These…assist."_

_"That's boring._

_"…And fake."_

_"Such is a life of secrecy, Master Jason."_

_"Well, it sucks, Al."_

Cassandra was still watching him, reading him, though the expression on her face suggested she didn't quite know _what_ she was seeing, which – Jason hardly knew what he was feeling himself.

Besides, he'd gotten distracted—

—for a fleeting moment Jason thought he could see himself, though the boy had no actual face he could make out, coming through the lounge's doorway, looking up at the tall, black clad figure beside him – smiling, maybe – and Bruce put a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed.

_"Good work, Jason."_

For all the hard work he'd ever done, as Robin, as Jason, in this house, _trying_ always, to impress, and succeed, and live up to a name and what had now become a legacy he'd always been uncertain about deserving even as he felt a rush of pride donning the suit, donning the ability, the _capability_, to _help_ people, and change their lives in a big way—

For all the bad bits that came with that, he'd had _family_ here, too.

This was _home_.

Every good bit of his existence that didn't include his mom, had happened _here_. _Because_ of _here_.

And then Jason was no longer smiling up at Bruce, but was instead settled in the older man's arms, still clad in his uniform, being _carried_ up the same stairs Jason stared at over his shoulder now, up to bed, feigning sleep – because Robin-training wouldn't keep him ignorant of being lifted off the couch where he'd succumbed to slumber, despite being ill – because he could not, for the life of him, remember ever being carried and tucked into bed before, by his father. And it felt nice.

…

Jason breathed. Could feel the way his heart pounded, _beat_ after _beat_.

It was overwhelming, and strange – strangely comforting, strangely disconcerting – to, so suddenly, be reminded of this, when he hadn't considered these memories in years.

He'd tucked them away in the back of his mind, teetering carefully over the abyss of eternally forgotten, only _just_ not tipping in and becoming lost while Jason tried and struggled in vain to figure out what he wanted.

Because after going out of his way to find the Replacement, and then giving in to the needling desire to make sure the kid wasn't another notch on the Dead-Robin post – another suit in a case – Jason could no longer pretend he had what he wanted.

He found he no longer knew what that was.

Especially once Dick had told him the truth about Bruce, and the old man's condition, and practically begged him to come inside and settle things.

But Jason had bolted, of course, too scared of having that conversation – not yet brave enough for it, not knowing what he might end up saying; _regretting_. Too overwhelmed and surprised by the fact that the only man who'd ever been a father to him – close as one could get – was _dying_.

Things between them had been at a stalemate for so long, Jason had had no idea how to get them out of it – it seemed, simply, as if it would go on forever as is.

They'd end up old men on different sides of the city, just…_being_.

It took a while for the realisation to sink in – that it wouldn't be the case, anymore. And once it had, every old, frightened feeling of guilt and regret from when Bruce had "died" the first time, had come rushing back.

Jason had been angry all over again, for a while. Remorseful, and whimsical, and uncertain – indulging in mental arguments and heart-to-hearts in equal measure, if not a combination of the two—his thoughts slipping into imaginary conversations with Bruce of their own accord.

Sometimes Jason would tell him everything – everything he hated about him, everything he loved, everything he wished he could change, everything he'd learned from Bruce, and everything he hadn't—

Sometimes Jason told him about dying.

Sometimes Jason told him about waking up in his coffin.

Sometimes Jason told him about the Lazarus Pit.

Sometimes Jason tried to make him understand.

Sometimes Bruce did. Sometimes he said it was alright, and he could accept Jason's way of doing things. In fact – sometimes it wasn't Tim who'd killed the Joker, but Bruce instead.

Jason's mind couldn't supply a method, exactly, because imagining Bruce wielding a gun, even for putting down that rabid psychopath, only made Jason's stomach turn.

He'd realised, a long time after he'd tossed Batman his firearm in that old apartment so long ago, how much of a twisted act that had been.

Clowns and crowbars and fires and small, dark spaces, silences, and a host of other things he'd never thought of twice, before, had bothered him for the longest time after he'd come out of the grave – even out of the Pit, still.

He'd worked hard, _trained_ hard to get over whatever he could, and _move on_, as much as he could.

But he'd realised, wondering how the thought hadn't occurred to him before – or had it? Had it been _intentional_? – that Bruce, of course, hadn't moved on after his parents were shot in front of his very young eyes.

He carried that image, that aversion to violence, and _guns_, with him – every day building up Gotham through Wayne Enterprises; every night donning the cape and cowl.

Jason couldn't fault the man for that, though, not really – when he himself had similar inclinations.

The way Jason ran the drug-trade anyone dealing to kids and women met a bullet through the barrel of his gun in a very personal way and there was never a trickle of remorse. It cut too close to the skin for Jason; reminded him too much of his mother.

Women were strong – he could attest to that, personally. They could take care of themselves and their children, and knew better than Jason thought any man ever really would, but…there was only so much anyone could do against addiction.

Another personal lesson he'd lived through and only barely survived.

In hindsight, Jason thought he might have handled his return to Gotham a little better – with regards to the gun, at least.

Sometimes…Jason understood, too.

Sometimes things worked out. Sometimes…Bruce would hold him the way he had in one of those deeply locked-away memories.

Sometimes they shook hands.

Sometimes Bruce even smiled – _properly_.

Only, all too often, Jason couldn't _help_ but remind himself it would never _be_ as easy as he made it look in his head.

Too often, Bruce killing the Joker wasn't enough, as if it ran deeper than that. As if it was already too late.

Too often they ended up arguing over everything, over and over again, back and forth and in circles, feeling more real than any imagined acceptance ever could, and Jason was forced to acknowledge that things could never change.

They could argue, or could stay out of each other's way. There seemed no other option.

He'd had, what he thought was undoubtedly _every_ version of this conversation with Bruce. And _still_ he'd come. _Of course_ he'd come. He'd been asked – he'd _owed_ this much, at least, and…

Jason looked up, over Cassandra's shoulder and saw his footprints in the snow again, the trail he'd left up to the steps…

And there _was_ no going back anymore, and no more _time_ for waiting either. No more forever.

This was…_it_.

He'd been apprehensive about coming, and scared of what he might find, and how he'd end up handling it, been _anxious_ about seeing Bruce, and what _he_ might say – and whether or not he _really_ wanted Jason around in his last days – the failure, the mistake, the black blotch on the Wayne name – or had that just been Dickie and Alfred – and now Cassandra – showering him in false promises and wishful thinking?

So caught up in the destination, the arrival, Jason hadn't given the journey any consideration.

He hadn't thought it would _be this hard_ coming back inside this house until he'd stood right in front of it.

He'd always had a vague notion that it would take every ounce of him to accomplish – it was the manor, and the memories it held, that had kept him from going further than the porch eight months ago, had him rejecting Tim's invitation, Dick's pleas—

In the wake of Bruce's condition, and what that _meant_ for _them_, he'd all but forgotten his misgivings about going _inside the building_. But Jason knew again, now, why he'd had so many difficulties with entering – it had brought all the remembrances he'd so carefully tucked away with Jason-who-died _rushing_ to the forefront of his mind, and—

It _hurt_.

He was reminded of warmth, and family – a thing Jason had had so little of he could never simply _disregard_ it, even as he wanted no _part_ in it any more (didn't deserve it, didn't _want_ it – didn't want them with them wanting him _changed_) – and what-could-have-been, and what was he going to _tell_ Bruce when he saw him now?

With the past clinging this tight to his insides, what sort of resentment and heartache and disapproval would that conjure inside him? How would he screw up this chance for—?

_What. Ever_ – Jason wasn't sure himself what it was, what _exactly_ he'd come for, what _words_ this talk would entail…

Only, Jason realised, watching the snow, feeling Cassandra's fingers slowly slip away from his face, her wrists slipping from his grip – there was _no_ going back, even as the memories seemed too much—

Jason _needed_ to do this. For himself. Maybe a little for Bruce, too, he didn't know.

It was the right thing, regardless, and no matter how unsure he was, or how many happy memories ended up stumbling out of the dark, or how much _easier_ leaving seemed – he needed to be braver than that.

He could do this.

Jason didn't know how long it took him to gather his wits, but Cassandra had silently let him take his time, and when, with a quick breath, he'd turned around to face the foyer again, she was no longer by herself—

"Master Jason," the butler stood several steps up the staircase. A couple rungs further up stood Tim, looking placid and plain and much more like himself.

"Al," Jason replied, quiet, nodding at the man.

"I'm pleased to see you could make it after all, sir," Alfred said formally, making it sound as if he'd given Jason a choice, but, when the elder man had stood speaking in Jason's less-than-stellar safe-house only the day before, removing a pair of bloody surgical gloves and clashing ridiculously with the décor, he'd made it _quite_ clear Jason was being all but _ordered_. There was no other way to take a friendly request from the butler.

Alfred only made requests straightforward and plainly when he knew they were absolutely pertinent, but all his charges were too stubborn or prideful to do what needed to be done.

Besides which, the old man had picked him apart, laid bare Jason's own soul before him as if it had been Alfred's, and Jason could not have denied a single thing he'd been told even if he'd tried. He'd have only been lying.

Alfred had always known him best, and…if Jason owed anyone anything, it was Alfred, who didn't deserve any of the hurt Jason must have caused all these years. Alfred might never have set foot on a battlefield, swung from a roof, been caught in a cross-fire—

But he'd gotten hurt, every time one of the family did, too. Too many of those hurts Jason had caused one way or another, and, while he couldn't – _wouldn't_ – take it back, because he'd _meant_ it at the time, because he'd _wanted_ Bruce and Dick and Tim, to _hurt_, he hadn't ever meant the same for Alfred. He had a chance to make it right now, and he'd promised…There was no more going back.

He _did_ need to do this. For Alfred as much as for himself.

"If you'll follow me, then, sir."

Jason breathed, apprehensive at once, at what memories he might find deeper into the manor.

Alfred waited with the perceived patience of a thousand resolute, battle-ready soldiers, and Jason set his jaw, determinedly making his way toward the stairs, very carefully _not_ jumping when Cass – _Cass_ – shut the door with a low _thud_ once he was properly inside.


	8. attempting bravery (prt 2)

**~attempting bravery~  
**

* * *

"A DEFINITION NOT FOUND  
IN THE DICTIONARY

Not leaving: an act of trust and love,  
often deciphered by children"

― Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

* * *

Jason focused on walking. Just walking, and walking – he could do that. He could walk.

He followed in Alfred and Tim's wake, the younger boy giving Jason the shyest, most apologetic smile he'd ever seen on the kid's face when Jason climbed the first few steps. Tim had turned around and led the way up before Jason could think to make a face of some kind – a _what the hell, kid?_-kind of face was the only kind that came to mind though and, with Alfred's eyes still on him before the butler turned as well, not making it had probably been best.

Vaguely he was aware of Cassandra climbing the stairs after him, always a step behind.

Jason had kept his eyes on Alfred, but it reminded him too much of the first time he'd ascended the staircase – watching the unfamiliar butler's back as he was led to the room he'd be occupying. Opposite Dick's, he discovered later.

Unbidden, he wondered – perhaps not for the first time – what Bruce had ended up doing with all his stuff, after he'd…died.

Given his school books back, probably – he thought he might have been in the middle of an assignment…writing a short story or something? He couldn't remember.

Kept his storybooks, Jason thought, recalling Cassandra clutching his makeshift copy of _Beauty and the Beast_ (though that wasn't the only little fairy tale in there) in her arms the last time he'd been here. Jason had been too shy to ask for books when he'd first moved in, not used to people buying him things anymore besides, but, he suddenly had all the paper he could ever want, and means for retyping and printing the stories he liked – so he could return the library books he'd, well, _stolen_.

Where had Alfred put Jason's—"collection," the butler had called it—?

In addition to the fairy tales, there had been a bunch of classics he'd brought along from his – and, technically, his mom's – old apartment, rewritten in his own hand, bound between cardboard covers filled front to back with doodles – _Huckleberry Finn_, _Tom Sawyer_, _Oliver Twist_, _The Prince and the Pauper_…

Bruce had bought him every one of those and then some, but he'd kept his own makeshift books. As a reminder, maybe. Of where he'd come from? Or, how things had been before?

Of the comfort those stories had brought him when he'd been alone, and waiting—

For his father to sober up.

For his mother to wake up.

For Bruce—

Not even reading, just holding onto something he _knew_, inside and out, seated on the staircase – before he'd been recruited as Robin, before he'd started training, when all he'd been offered was a home and safety, and some sort of family—

But he knew whose family he was a part of. _Batman's_. And the Dark Knight's duty kept him out at night, and Jason, too used to waiting up for people to come home, and too wary to sleep in unfamiliar surroundings, had spent many a night on the steps of this staircase, in the dark; _waiting_.

…

Jason didn't know he'd stopped walking until Cassandra moved in his peripheral vision, her hand resting lightly at the crook of his elbow. Jason shifted his arm and her hand fell away – he looked up, away from the view of the step—

Alfred, and Tim beyond him, had stopped walking as well, a mere handful of stairs from the top.

Alfred placed a hand on his shoulder, and Jason swallowed reflexively, ducked his head, feeling silly for getting so caught up in the past again—

"…Alright, Jason?" Alfred asked, quietly, and the absence of "Master" meant more than its presence would have, now.

Jason breathed, quick and hard, nodded and looked up – too fast, so he had to look away again—

He shook his head.

"Al…" he all but whispered, feeling incredibly small and _guilty_ for his hesitation. "Do I…" he glanced back up, Alfred looking impossibly tall somehow. "Do I _have_ to, I mean, does he even, _really_—" Jason cut off, ducked his head again and buried his face in his hands with a groan. What was he doing? What the _hell_ was he doing? There was no getting out of this – there was no making up excuses, or hesitating—

He'd come this far. He—

He _needed_ to do this. He _would_.

Alfred squeezed his shoulder, but it was Tim who spoke.

"He _wants_ to see you, Jason. Honest, he does."

Jason peered up at the kid, every inch a determined Red Robin by the firm set of his jaw, his tightly clenched fists at his side—

_What had the Joker done to you, Timmy…?_

"So, come on. Please?"

"Perhaps I'd been too callous, sir," Alfred said, almost solemnly – or about as close as the proper butler would ever show, Jason thought. "Somewhat…selfish of me. I cannot force you any further if you'd rather not."

Jason barked a laugh, some of the tension squeezing at his soul slipping with the shake of his shoulders, "Are you kidding, Al? If anyone can force me, it's you…"

Jason didn't miss the mildly satisfied smile ghosting across Alfred's lips for the quickest of seconds, before the butler's expression turned softer, "Indeed, sir," he allowed. "But in my haste to…reconcile the situation, shall we say? I fear I may not have considered the consequences…to you, as closely as I should have, sir."

Jason half-smiled, half-laughed, and shook his head, "No, Al, I…" he glanced back, at Cassandra, her lips quirked. "I want to," he mumbled. "I'm…being an ass, don't—mind me. …Sorry," he added belatedly, for the swear as much as anything else.

Alfred smiled. "Very well, sir," and Jason's shoulder received another gentle squeeze before Alfred's hand was gone. Jason thought that would be it, but the butler's forefinger briefly tapped at his chest, "Good?" he asked, very quietly. Jason nodded, and Alfred returned the gesture, satisfied, before continuing his trek upwards.

Jason met eyes with Tim, and the kid smiled at him, gave him a plainly satisfied nod, and followed Alfred's lead without a word.

Jason made an effort not to bristle, the ever-familiar annoyance Tim invoked creeping slowly to the surface – now wasn't the time. Besides, Tim was a _kid_, and for all that he had _replaced_ Jason, he didn't deserve anything that had happened recently. The Joker was not a curse Jason had ever wished upon the Replacement no matter how much he'd hated him—or, the _thought_ of him, really. _Robin_ should have ended with Jason, and the Bat should've kept his shit together better. Or spilled the Joker's guts very literally.

Absently, Jason shook his head, trudged up the staircase with Cass still at his back, into a hauntingly familiar corridor.

_Years_, and nothing had changed.

Jason crossed his arms tight over his chest and tried not to stare too long at anything – doors or windows, or paintings, or the carpet under his feet.

Deeper into the house Alfred led them, the silence of the place hanging thick in the air, obnoxiously reminding Jason of the silence he'd abruptly woken up to upon his resurrection.

There had been no scream, no gasp, no sudden inhale of life-giving breath—he'd been asleep, and then, simply, awake, as if he had gone to bed in his coffin of his own accord.

It had been dark, at first, the same way it always was when he woke in the middle of the night, for whatever reason.

Aware he hadn't been woken by a nightmare, Jason may have rolled over and gone back to sleep, content, if his Bat-training hadn't alerted him to several things – this wasn't his bed, for one. He was dressed in a suit, for another, and, it was too quiet.

The manor was _never_ this quiet at night. It was old, and it groaned and sighed and creaked and settled, and even when it seemed to quiet down there was still noise – a breeze brushing around the corners outside, trees rustling in the wind, and the bats, of course. They squeaked and screeched and flapped their wings in a chorus Jason could recognise easily if he just stopped to listen.

He had, and hadn't heard anything.

It had been quiet then as it was now, none of them breathing loudly, their footsteps like feathers ghosting over the carpet. Perfectly trained.

When Jason's vision had become accustomed to the dark, he'd already run his hands across the wooden surface of the box – the _coffin_, he realised – and then he could practically _see_ the inside of the thing, holding him hostage. A flood of memory had crashed into him – Joker with a crowbar, laughing as he worked Jason's flesh into a collage of black and red, and blue; the painfully slow _tick-tick_ of the bomb counting down what he'd believed at the time were the last seconds of his life, coming up too quickly on _zero_, Jason counting along in his head involuntarily after he'd looked away, holding on tighter to his mother, her sobs in his ears—

Had it all been a trick, he'd wondered – had the bomb been a dud? Had Jason only been blacked out instead? Did Joker throw him in a coffin to scare him, for laughs? …For Batman to think he was dead? Did Bats even know where he'd gone – Jason hadn't exactly covered his tracks, but…would Bruce even care?

The silence had ticked on, another countdown in Jason's head, before he'd really taken it in – the lack of noise; he was _buried alive_.

He'd started _screaming_ then, panic taking hold before he could think to stop it, and—

—

—Jason swept his fingers through his hair, nails hard against his scalp, _tugged_ before letting go. He shouldn't be thinking of that—

He was aware, dimly, that he'd stopped walking.

If only it wasn't so _quiet_. Jason was scared he'd abruptly start screaming just to drown out the silence—

"Snowing, again," Jason started at Cassandra's voice right next to him; she'd stopped as well.

"What?" he said lamely, and followed her gesture to a window in the room on their left, where white flakes of snow were visible, descending in a whimsical flurry. "Oh. Yeah…" his voice sounded hoarse, as if he _had_ been screaming after all.

"Alfred's, getting away from us," Cass said, nudging his arm with her elbow and pointing ahead, to where Alfred and Tim had paused at the corner.

"Yeah…" Jason mumbled, giving them a quick glance, but his gaze turned back to the room with the window – Dickie's room, he realised abruptly, even though nothing of what he could see inside looked like Dick's anymore, but—

—that meant—

Cass pushed gently at his arm and Jason started down the hallway again, looking round at the door on their right even as he went—

His door.

Or, what _had been_ his door.

Always open just the tiniest bit so he could listen – to Bruce and Dick, when the latter came over and their current argument either started or somehow ended outside the Batcave. Jason would shut the door as quick and quietly as he could before they appeared in the hallway outside, not wanting either of them to know he'd been eavesdropping. Sometimes, he'd gotten the feeling they knew anyway – almost especially whenever Dick would come knocking, grinning in a reassuring way and talking like he hadn't just been yelling at Jason's father.

He'd try to be nice, Jason remembered, but…Jason would glare and wish him away, and then feel bad about it when Dick _did_ leave and Bruce turned quiet and sulked over case-files and _work_ – no time for Jason, suddenly, and then he'd just feel angry at Dick all over again.

Jason's door was closed, now, even as he could almost see himself peeking out, as if in a dream.

Sometimes, moments few and far between, he'd let Dick talk him into things – cartwheels down the hall, flipping contests he could never manage to win, swinging from the chandelier, jumping on Bruce's bed until the springs creaked when he was being difficult over something Jason had done, or hadn't done, on patrol—

Sometimes, moments with Dick were happy, the same way moments with Bruce had been happy more often than not – especially when it had been only the two of them, working together in the field, or outside of their uniforms post-patrol, getting stitched-up and sipping at hot chocolate—

_Of course_ things weren't _always_ that great. Jason had had plenty of anger to throw around and, even then already, a _fervent_ belief that Gotham's worst bastards got what they deserved when he let his anger get the better of him in a fight. Whether on purpose or by accident. Bruce had never _quite_ agreed either way, even then, but—

He'd still been Jason's father. Bruce had proven it, treated him differently – _better_ – than his real father ever had; always had his back, gave him advice, and trusted him, and—

They'd worked things out in their own semi-twisted ways, as much as they could always manage, and, by the end of it, Jason knew he'd always gotten what he'd deserved, too. Through Bruce's verbal lashings or no more than a disapproving look and the silent-treatment, or saddling Jason with monitor duty so he could calm down and get his act together again. Which was why he'd been in the cave the night he'd found out about his biological mother and was able to subsequently take the fatal trip to see her without Batman's permission. Benched.

Of course, if he hadn't been, he never would've died—

Their procession came to a stop just then, Jason behind Alfred, aware of Tim on his one side and Cass just behind him. He'd been eyeing the all too familiar wooden door with apprehension since they'd rounded the corner. Bruce was just beyond it.

Jason hadn't seen him for months – Batman had become scarcer the last while and Jason could only assume he wasn't fit for patrol anymore. Probably, the next time the Dark Knight appeared in Gotham it would be Dickiebird underneath the cowl. Or—

—Cassandra?

Was that what she'd meant…?

Alfred stepped aside, "Here we are, sir," he announced, curling his old, calloused fingers around the doorknob, and Jason—

Just _breathed_.


	9. facing fears

**~facing fears~  
**

* * *

"Somewhere, far down, there was an itch in his heart, but he made it a point not to scratch it. He was afraid of what might come leaking out."

― Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

* * *

"A guest for you, sir," Alfred announced, stepping into the room first and hovering just beside the open door, still holding onto the knob.

Jason hesitated over the threshold for a moment, feeling too exposed with Tim and Cassandra's eyes on him, and too apprehensive of what he might find inside the room, but—

"Can't it wait, Alfre—uh…I guess you don't mean me," Dick finished with a mumble, once he'd turned around, eyes landing on Jason, who shifted his weight, and flexed his fingers at his sides, and kept his eyes carefully trained on Dick. The shorter man had stood up, out of his chair by the bed and was doing a brilliant job of blocking Jason's view of who he _knew_ was lying there, and, for all that he'd come here to _see_ the damn man, Jason didn't want Dick to move.

He blinked, and swallowed, and glanced back sideways at Alfred; the old man meeting his gaze for just a moment.

"Little Wing…" Dick said, ever so quietly, and Jason turned back to him. If he'd left a black and blue bruise on Dickie's face to go with that skin-tight night time uniform of his, there was no trace of it anymore, now. No resentment for the punch either it seemed, because there was a small smile playing on Dick's lips – there and then not, and again, like Dick didn't know if it was alright to smile or not, but he really _wanted_ to anyway. "I didn't think you'd…" he trailed off, with a little laugh in the back of his throat before he ran his fingers through his hair, rubbed at the back of his neck, his other hand on his hip, eyes downcast.

Jason shifted his feet again, his shoulders half-twisting back, uncomfortable.

"But it's," Dick looked back up at him. "Nice to see you here, Jay…" his voice sounded strained to Jason's ears, and his blue-blue eyes were red-rimmed, from crying no doubt, and his skin abnormally pale, for him, in a different way than the sick-with-flu-or-whatever-it-was kind of pale it had been months before; and the stark contrast with his dark, dishevelled hair, and his _blue_ eyes surrounded by _red_—he looked—

_Haunted_.

Jason's heart _ached_ a little, seeing his brother like _this_. He didn't think he ever had before.

Jason might have said something into the following silence – opened his mouth to, in fact, though he wasn't entirely sure what might have come out – if it wasn't for the sound of shifting sheets behind Dick, making Jason stop short—

Suddenly, he felt frozen.

Dick turned, a little, to glance back at the bed, and Jason looked _pointedly_ away.

"Yeah, well," Jason mumbled at the floor, feeling like all of his insides were shaking just underneath his skin, and then it all came out in a rush, "Nice to see you, too, but I've changed my mind—"

He'd turned around, _away_ from the bed and its occupant, of Dick's – accusing? Sympathetic? Stunned? _Disappointed?_ – expression, whatever it was, even before he'd finished the sentence—

Only to come face to face with a closed bedroom door, Alfred having disappeared like a phantom, leaving him and Tim and Cassandra, with Dickie and—

Tim was in front of him then, the kid's back pressed firmly to the door, his hands clenched into fists, and Jason stopped short in his step.

"Move, Timmy," he ordered half-heartedly, not looking at the kid, but—

Tim shook his head, very deliberately, when Jason finally _did_ look up; the boy's jaw tightening too, his dark blue eyes determined above rings of sleeplessness that only now seemed apparent.

He looked so tired. They all looked tired.

Jason's fingers curled into fists of their own, and his gaze darted off to the side, at Cassandra – training compelling him to know where she was and what she was doing; she wasn't looking at him.

Part of him felt relieved at that, and the other part uneasy—

She'd cut through the silence in the hall commenting on the weather before Jason could sink too deeply into a bad memory, and he knew, if anyone could understand why, _now_, after coming this far and being _so_ determined, he was suddenly—a_ cowardly little shit_—running away, again, it would be her—

And he wanted – just needed _someone_ to understand—

—only, perhaps _that_ was why she didn't have her eyes on him – she didn't _want_ to understand why, because—

—because, she _blamed_ him – for this—this disarray their – _her_ – family was in—

Not Bruce's dying, or Tim and the Joker, but before all that, even – the way they were—

_Broken_. She'd said.

Said she blamed him – had made it quite clear the way she'd pelted him with snow in the front yard, only to coax him inside shortly after, because—

Because she wanted this, too.

And perhaps, looking at him now, she _would_ understand which was why she wasn't looking.

Plausible deniability.

Jason thought, he could – maybe – understand that, in turn – and yet—he still needed someone else to understand, to—

To help _justify_ his—actions—he just—

Couldn't do this.

He'd _thought_ he could, had been trying to convince himself of it all the way _here_, but _now_—

He _wasn't _brave at all. He was _just_ scared.

Just terrified—

Like he'd been the night Joker had beaten him half to death and blown him up the rest of the way—

Scared of never seeing his father again, never apologizing, never telling him how much he appreciated, or loved, him—

And now he _knew_ he _never would_ do that again—

Because he wasn't sure right now if he'd _mean_ an apology – didn't want to have to lie – and he _didn't_ appreciate anything Bruce had done for – to – him lately, and he—

Even if he _did_ love him, still, just a _little_ – what were the chances of Bruce still loving _him_?

After everything he had done – against Batman's moral code? And everything he was, _undoubtedly_, still going to do after the man was gone?

Because Gotham _needed_ Jason's breed of justice; it was the only way to keep her _tame_ and _safe_, and Bruce _couldn't_ understand that, no matter how Jason's imagination tried to convince him otherwise—

"I said _move_, Replacement," Jason all but _growled_, staring daggers at the kid's haggard face, his fingers tight.

But Tim, for all that he looked more ready to crumple to the ground with every passing minute, stood his damn ground with the most intense expression Jason had ever seen on his face without the mask.

The kid shook his head, slowly, "_No_."

A huff of air escaped through Jason's teeth, and he glanced sideways at Cassandra, but she still wasn't looking at him.

"Timmy," Dick had started at his back, and Jason could just _sense_ Dick's hand hovering above his shoulder. Dick hesitated, in a way that made Jason think the words had literally stuck in his throat for a second, "Step aside, little brother," he spoke quietly, voice a little hoarse and broken, and Jason—

—made the mistake of looking back around, to his right, where Dick was no longer standing, leaving the bed and its occupant in plain view—

—

—

—Jason didn't realise he'd all but stopped breathing until Dick's hand landed on his arm, squeezing, the touch physically jerking him from his thoughts – which had been blank, and confused and concerned all at once, because, _Bruce_—

"You don't _have_ to stay…Jason," Dick's voice was a whisper, and Jason blinked, not knowing when he'd turned his head away to look at the older man. Dickie's red-rimmed baby blues were flitting left and right, searching for something on Jason's face, or in his eyes that Jason couldn't guess at—

Bruce at the corner of Jason's vision, pale and sickly like half of everyone else in the house, too, and—

—and his closest arm hanging shakily in the air, fingers twitching with the desire to spread out, _reach,_ for Jason—

—

—Jason ducked his head; the glimpse of Bruce keeping his feet in place, and tightening the air in his lungs, and squeezing his throat so he couldn't breathe where he was, but couldn't leave either, while Dickie's eyes, so unlike how Jason had ever seen them before, on his face, and his words – was he _really_…_urging_? Jason to go? – only made Jason feel _guilty_, and—

—and he couldn't look any more. At either of them.

He caught his breathe, too loud, and Jason's other hand was already reaching for Dick's fingers even as the other man squeezed his arm again. Reassuringly?

But Jason didn't think he could deal with this.

He didn't want to be forced into this, but he didn't want to simply be excused from it, either—

He wanted, rather—

He just wanted…

…

"Get out," he said at last, speaking past the lump in his throat, his voice sounding thick and strained, as he plucked Dick's hand easily from his arm, meaning to let go, but Dick caught his between his fingers and held on.

"Jay—"

"_I said get out_," he snapped, teeth grit and brow furrowed, still not looking up at Dick or anything – anyone – else, snatching back his hand and stuffing both in his pockets, shoulders hunching a little, almost automatically. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done that _out of reflex_. Or maybe he just hadn't been paying as close attention as he could have.

People were scum in Gotham, he'd learned that lesson a million times over, and the decent ones were too few and far between to count for much. Jason had learned being small and unassuming was enough to go by unnoticed, sometimes. Otherwise it was enough of a ploy to catch attention, and then strike at the least expected moment.

But he hadn't genuinely _shied away_, like this, from anyone since before…he'd _died_. Been a real _kid_, still, as much as that had been possible considering circumstances.

He felt a little like fifteen again – on the receiving end of one of Bruce's lectures after he'd done something stupid, _again_, with Dickiebird playing at peace-keeper like only Dick could.

But Jason had grown so much, despite the initial malnutrition when Bruce had found him, and an incalculable amount of time he'd spent again on the streets right after his resurrection before Talia and his quick dip in a Lazarus Pit – after which he'd felt strange, and awkward, and nothing worked the way he remembered it should, making eating another slow habit to return – and he hadn't been lectured in quite a while, besides – that Jason didn't doubt he looked more like a big, whiny baby curled into himself right now than anything else.

He sighed, quietly, consciously relaxing his shoulders, keeping his eyes on his shoes.

It was silent, then, for all but the whirr of machinery and the steady beating of a monitor, reflecting Bruce's hea—

Jason's chest seized up again, thinking for one terrified moment that he'd missed the _click_ of the door again, or Dickie was just _that quiet_, and he'd ushered their siblings out the room and followed at Jason's command, and they'd _left him alone_, with Bruce, like he'd asked—

Relief washed over him at once when his head snapped up anxiously, and he turned, with his back much more to the door, only to find Dickie still at his side.

No one but Bruce could have seen Jason's expression, and he fought real hard not to acknowledge that fact, as he schooled his face into something more neutral before Dick, who'd dropped his gaze to his tapping sock-clad feet, looked back up to meet his eyes.

Jason steeled himself, not certain what to expect – he felt like he'd lost a big block of time, the same way he'd spent an hour loitering at their door months ago without realising it until afterward, but, surely Dick and the others – his shoulder blades itching uncomfortably at having them at his back – couldn't have stood quietly beside him for an hour doing nothing just now.

He was imagining the feeling.

Dick nodded at him, "Whatever you need, Jay, just—" Dick appeared to be eyeing him almost warily, visibly hesitating, before he _moved_; if the same way he might have, had he volunteered to stick his hand into a bear's mouth hoping it wouldn't bite it off at the wrist – Jason hardly had time to tense up, expecting—not sure _what_—before Dick had wrapped his octopus-arms all around Jason much the same way he had the last time Jason had been to the manor; one limb pinning Jason's arm to his side as the other snaked round Jason's neck and squeezed.

Jason tensed, of course, for several reasons—

"Dick—" a token protest he wasn't feeling at all, really, even as his most able hand slipped from his pocket as if to push Dick away of its own accord. It seemed like they'd done this too many times now, it was starting to become routine, although Jason wasn't sure he'd gotten this many hugs even before…_before_.

Dick's bony chin dug into his shoulder, and when he spoke Jason was almost certain no one else could hear, though he made out Dickie's whisper well-enough so close to his ear, "Thank you for this…'m proud of you, lil'broth'r."

Jason swallowed hard, and then regretted the reflex at once, sure Dick had felt it this close, and, leaving Jason with one more squeeze the older man stepped back almost at once, only confirming it.

Dick kept one hand on Jason's arm and the other on his shoulder, as he had the last time as well, and offered Jason a small, tentative-seeming smile Jason couldn't return, so he dropped his gaze instead.

Dick's fingers only tightened on his arm again, before, "And _you_," he said pointedly, and Jason spied him turning to face Bruce, one hand reaching for Bruce's still hovering in the air. He clasped Bruce's fingers in his own, tightly, "Be _nice_," Dick said, only just not using the Nightwing-voice Jason thought, though he hadn't spoken to that side of his older brother in quite some time, and so couldn't be sure, especially since there was a faint hint of amusement in Dickie's tone, despite the seriousness of it. Dick was only half-joking, Jason thought, and couldn't help the twitch of his fingers, safely concealed in his pockets at least.

Dick hadn't let up on the _grip _he had on Jason's arm, and the younger man was _this_ close to shrugging him off, not kindly, when Dick let go of Bruce, turning back to him, "You too," he mouthed at Jason, though he was plainly smiling, poking Jason in the chest with his index finger and missing Alfred's bandaged stitch-job with a couple inches – to Jason's relief.

"Whatever," Jason mumbled, eyes flicking away as he said it, his feet itching to shift and his arm stiff under Dick's lingering hand. Dick's lips thinned into a small smile, though, and he nodded.

Jason shifted, watching Dick face the rest of the room.

"C'mon, guys," he said, holding out an arm for each of his siblings. Cassandra stepped closer from her spot near the far wall, and Tim ducked dutifully under Dick's offered arm, allowing the older man to wrap it all around his shoulders and give him a good squeeze.

Jason glanced away at the scene, accidentally locking gazes with Cassandra instead – it was the first time she'd looked at him since they'd entered the room, and Jason had just long enough to wonder what she was seeing in him before she pointedly looked away and then disappeared past Dick and the kid, out the door.

Dickie hung back a second, Tim under one arm and his hand on the doorknob, "We'll be right…around, out here, y'know, if you need anything," he offered. "Just…linger in the doorway," he shrugged one shoulder, "You know how Alfred senses that kind of thing," and Dick smirked at him.

Jason half-smiled back, for the sake of it, not really wanting Dick to think he didn't like his little joke, though Jason had hardly heard to be honest. "Yeah, right," he mumbled, eyes darting – worriedly, he couldn't help it – toward Tim, who was regarding him with a wide grin on his face, all teeth, though it didn't meet his blank blue eyes at all.

Dick either hadn't noticed, or was ignoring it, and then he'd pulled Tim back and shut the door after one last awkward pause and a smile at Jason. He was suddenly alone.

With Bruce.

…

…

…

Beyond working himself up to _consciously_ and _intentionally_, not only _take_ a trip to the manor, but also go inside – the latter part of which had been very touch-and-go until after it had already happened – Jason hadn't put _too_ much thought into what he'd do when he'd finally gotten to this point.

He'd considered planning a speech, or making a list of all the things he thought he had to say to Bruce.

Everything he'd never get to say to him again.

Only, the longer he'd thought about it, the more time he'd spent in his own head, going back and forth arguing with the Bruce in his mind. With Bruce and Dick, both.

So he'd eventually given up on planning it all out – instead, the plan was just to come. To focus on making it here, and if he'd gotten that far…well, then he'd be strong enough to face whatever else came afterward, he'd figured.

He'd let Bruce do the talking, he thought.

Only now, the old man wasn't saying a word.

…

Jason stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, eyes on the shut door and Bruce at his back, for several minutes before it occurred to him – what if Bruce _couldn't_ speak?

He hadn't said a word so far, and no one had explained the details of his condition to Jason. He hadn't _wanted_ to know.

The man was dying and there was no cure – if Dick was sure of that, and it was reflected on old Alfred's weathered face the way it had been the night before, then…it was _true_, and that was enough. Jason had no extensive knowledge of medical maladies or cures, and he knew even less about this drug in particular.

Before ditching the case and calling in favours to find Tim instead, all he and the little red bird, he knew, had discovered about it, was that it was definitely lethal. And there was no cure. No way to reverse or reduce or eliminate the effects.

He'd been too preoccupied with Tim on his mind to return to the drug case, after finally finding and sharing the lost bird's location. Fortunately he didn't need to be present for his operations to continue, and to continue running smoothly, at that.

After Dick had told him it had been the same drug he'd been working on getting off the streets, that was responsible for putting the damn Batman out of commission, Jason had spent the last couple weeks back on the case with a vengeance – several new leads on where the drugs were being stashed having been unearthed in Jason's absence, just waiting for him.

Considering the cut straight through his armour, slitting his skin, though, he may or may not have gotten back in too deep, too fast, and, in fact, he needed to get back to work so he could do something about that.

He'd have done something already, if he hadn't promised Alfred.

He needed to do this first.

The Red Hood could disappear for a day, let them think they'd gotten him bad. Let them settle. Ease their minds.

And when he got back to working he'd make certain they knew not to underestimate him a second time.

"…Jason…?" so he _could_ talk, after all, rough and quiet though it was.

Jason's back straightened at the sound, his shoulders stiffening as if brought to attention.

He glared at the door, agitated with himself for that reaction. Bruce hadn't even been using the ever-commanding "Batman-voice," and the last time Jason had snapped ramrod-straight at the sound of that he'd been newly returned to Gotham for the first time since Talia and the Lazarus Pit.

Discovering, as he spied on Bats, attempted anonymous revenge he hadn't been able to go through with at last, that he still responded to Batman's tone the same way he'd been taught to as Robin, Jason had added unlearning that to his training. By the time he'd come face to face with Batman, to avenge his own damn self since the old man "_couldn't_," Jason had been free of all the little ingrained reactions to Batman that used to be Robin's. That used to be _Jason's_, too, because, he could remember now, suddenly, that Bruce's own voice, own presence, eventually had a similar effect on Jason as Batman had on Robin.

Jason could never remove himself as completely, or partially, from the mask as Bats or Dick – or even Tim, and later Damian – had been able to.

Jason was just Jason, no matter what covered or stuck to his face. And, to him, everyone else seemed much like themselves regardless of masks, too. Batman and Bruce Wayne was the same person, through and through. They were equally stubborn, equally distant, equally old-fashioned, and equally guilty – for Dick's face and Tim's grin and Alfred's tired eyes and Cassandra's… Jason didn't know her well enough to say, but, he was pretty sure there was something off about her, too, probably – snowball fight aside.

And it was Bruce's fault.

Bruce and Batman both.

The same way they were both guilty for having _let_ the Joker get away with what he'd done to Jason. Killing him. Killing his mother.

Sometimes Jason forgot about that.

For all that he'd held her in his arms those last few seconds of his first life – perhaps because she'd sold him out to the Joker – Jason hadn't gone to Bruce for vengeance for _her_.

_Selfishly_, he was too honest and felt too ashamed to deny it, he'd only ever been thinking of himself. The little kid he'd thought – he'd _thought_ – in his dying moments, still meant a little something to the only parent – he _thought_ – he had left.

But, like his mother – like, like _dammit_, the both of them, if he was going to be _entirely_ honest with himself, because _shit_ – and his biological father, Bruce…Bruce had let him down, too.

And the man felt no remorse over it – just like Jason's real dad, like his real mom, sucking on a cigarette with her back turned while the Joker assaulted him with an old rusted crowbar, and Catherine who couldn't keep her promises even though she _tried_—

—

—

Jason sucked in a too-deep breath through his nose, hitching at the stretch of his chest, the pull of his stitches—

His shoulders relaxed, his fingers uncurling in his pockets—

"Did you see his face?" Jason asked, voice rough as Bruce's own had been, and, Jason didn't know whether he was referring to Dick, or Tim.

A moment passed, but there was no answer, and the returning silence clawed at Jason's forced calm.

At once his hands clenched, shoulders tensing again, with anger this time.

"Did you _see_," he grit through his teeth, turning slowly, "his _face_?"

He met Bruce's eyes – blue and steely as the Bat's ever were, regardless of his sallow features, all the dark shadows against the hard contours of his face.

Jason glared, "He looks _sick_. And _tired_, and—" he may or may not have been about to say "dead." "And what the—the _fu—hell_, Buh—Bruce…?" he breathed, shoulders slumping even though his nails only dug deeper into his skin.

"…What did you _do_?" he asked, mostly rhetorically. "I've never seen Dickie like that, and—and _Tim_, I—" he ran his palm across his face, fingers shaking over his lips, his other hand going to his hip. "I…" he'd looked away, at the window above Bruce's bed. Thick red velvet curtains pulled to a close as they were, kept the room swathed in a greyish light, hiding dim sunlight beyond them.

Jason breathed, and pressed his fingers against his mouth to still them, and blinked at the burn at the back of his eyes.

He hated this.

…

Bruce said nothing, for one long, bitterly quiet moment, before Jason caught sight of the old man's fingers, _reaching_ again, at the corner of his vision. Jason bit his bottom lip behind his fingers.

But Bruce wasn't reaching for _him_ this time, he was pointing at Dick's vacated seat.

"_Sit_…Jas'n…" the man said.

"I don't want to _sit_," Jason spat, hands coming down in fists again, and his eyes on Bruce, who didn't so much as flinch at Jason's tone, which was an unexpected relief for its familiarity. Bruce looked _older_ and more _fragile_ than Jason had ever seen him – even when he was recovering on the cot in the Med Bay downstairs right after one surgery or another he hadn't looked _this_… He'd never _looked_ like he was dying, not even in the moments it was going _so bad_ and Jason was convinced he _would_. And Robin would be left without a Batman, and Jason…without his father. "I _just_ want," Jason started, trying hard not to shout it, "You to tell me _how_ this happened."

Because Bruce had been an indestructible force in Jason's mind. Always. And this – seeing him like this – was shattering every image of and dissolving every ounce of faith Jason had ever had in the man. Even as Jason had learned of Bruce's apparent death the first time he'd been skeptical. And then angry, that the man who had ruined his second life from the moment it started, and who felt nothing about that and had cast him aside and branded him a failure and a mistake, had gone and died on him just like fucking _that_.

When Bruce came back, though, from his stint as a time traveller, of all the damn things, Jason wasn't even surprised. But he _was_ "over it," is the appropriate term. He'd hauled his ass out of bed one day after another and it _got better_. The more time passed the more he started to feel like himself again, to the point he was convinced the Jason who'd gone after Batman's cowl in his absence, hadn't even been him at all. He'd been childish, and rebellious and stupid, and he wouldn't be doing anything like that ever again.

He was his own man now. He'd carved his own little kingdom out of Gotham's broken slums and he was doing things the only way he _believed_ they were supposed to be done, to be effective.

He didn't _need_ Bruce anymore, and he sure as hell didn't need this family.

But he couldn't deny they were tethered to him still, and tugging at the strings.

He'd always have the world's respect for Bruce, for his talent and his skill, and maybe even his dedication, and maybe just the smallest bit of admiration for his resolve, even if that _did_ mean Joker stayed alive, and _Tim_—and, and Jason didn't get to start his second life peaceful because Bruce hurt him too much for that.

It was a very, _very_ small grain of admiration Jason didn't _want_ to feel, but he couldn't help it – because it was the same kind of resolve he was trying to keep himself. Sometimes he thought he could set the guns aside, and play by the Batman's rules, and come back, and "try" like they wanted him to, but then—

Just the _thought_, of all the awful people, the lowest, most disgusting _scum_ of Gotham city, running free after a few months – even a few years – and coming back to the innocent people and the victims they'd sworn revenge against, made Jason's stomach _churn_. The women and the children, and the fathers who tried to _be_ something for their kids – Jason couldn't just—

He couldn't be everywhere, and he couldn't live with himself if he slipped up somewhere and one of them got hurt because he'd been playing by the rules next to his "_family_," like he sometimes thought he wanted, like he sometimes thought _they_ wanted—

He couldn't give into that desire, whether it really was _real_, or just a thing his mind conjured sometimes to torture him with – make him feel like fifteen and desperate to please, and prove himself, and be _good_, again—

It was rearing its ugly little head again, even now – he felt like such a _kid_. The boy brought to attention at his father's tone – the little soldier ready to serve. The scared little kid, thinking he'd lose _everything_ he loved if Alfred didn't come out of the Med Bay with good news.

Before he lost it all on his own, anyway, dying, alone in a warehouse, for all that his mother was right there crying into his shoulder.

And Jason wanted to know. He wanted to know what had happened that he was losing everything all over again.

"Sssssi…suh…" Bruce slurred, swallowed, and licked some moisture onto his lips. Jason's fingers twitched, and the corner of his mouth, thinking, if Bruce was going to ask him to sit down one more time instead of answering the damn question—

"I was…looking, for'u," he half exhaled, blue eyes dropping from Jason's hard gaze.

"This is _not_ my fault," Jason snapped at once, raising a finger at the dying man like he was a defiant child. He nipped at his lip, shook his head, "I _never_ wanted you to go _looking_ for me," he swiped one hand through the air. "You _know_ that—"

He cut off; Bruce's slightly shaking fingers rising in a half-halting gesture. "S'not, what I meant," Bruce said, thickly, and he shifted against the stack of pillows at his back, under his head, pushing as much as he could with his elbow and his other hand, trying to sit up straighter.

Jason didn't move, wasn't sure if he should – if he should help, or scold the damn man and tell him to lie back down.

Bruce eased himself back against the pillows at last, breaths deep and slow and ragged. He closed his eyes for a moment, and Jason stared, watching him visibly relax his muscles, almost one at a time – his shoulders slumping against the pillows, his head sinking a little deeper against the fluff, mussing up his too-long black hair some more, his chest falling into a smooth up-down rhythm, and his only visible arm going slack, fingers limp.

He breathed, slow and methodical, and opened his eyes on Jason, who shifted his weight and swallowed.

"You disappeared," Bruce stated, more of his voice in his tone now, a little audible croak at the back of his throat. "I was…worried…"

Jason snorted, self-deprecating, before he could think not to, and stopped himself from saying something stupid and sarcastic. He'd looked away, missing whatever visual reaction Bruce had to that, though there probably wasn't one – even on his deathbed he was being as stony as ever.

Jason didn't know what to make of that – Bruce had always been strong, and part of that strength, Jason thought, lay in the walls he'd been building around himself for years after his parents died. Even though his children were inside those walls with him, now, they were still at arm's length. Jason had always been, at least. Things felt a little like they were falling apart, the little bit he thought he had left, the strings Bruce still had tied to his soul, but—

Bruce was still the same, despite it, and…it was a strange sort of comfort to Jason. Jason didn't know what he'd do if Bruce started acting as broken and defeated and dying as he looked.

Bruce had dropped his gaze, Jason noticed in his peripheral, back to the chair. A typical antique thing, low, with wooden feet and patterned upholstery, on the seat and the back and the armrests.

"Sit down, Jason…" Bruce repeated, quietly, no command in his voice. "Please."

Jason licked at his own chapped lips, looked back at Bruce and met the man's blue eyes. He blinked, and looked away, and scratched at the back of his head, and breathed. Bruce's relaxed fingers were just out of arm's reach from the chair now, after he'd sat up more.

Jason let the silence drag on, let his mind wander, wondering when the last time was he'd been that close without also looking for a fight.

When he shuffled forward, aiming for the chair, at last, he was hardly registering what he was doing. Uncurling his stiff fingers, he set them slowly on the armrests of the chair first, before sitting, uncomfortable, his eyes never quite leaving Bruce's equally locked on his.

"Happy now?" he muttered, only half-bitingly. Bruce hadn't moved a muscle all the while Jason had took his time sitting down. Jason drummed the tips of his fingers against the fabric of the chair, across the fluffy velvet of the pattern, against smooth red. "You going to tell me what I want to know, now?"

Bruce nodded, slowly, steady, his gaze unwavering. He only looked away, more thoughtful than anything else, as he started speaking at last, "Tim was…" he looked…_sad_, to Jason, suddenly. Behind his eyes. In his soul. "Just gone, and…we couldn't _find him_. It was…an odd, thing. To have Tim…gone. We've always been…_blessed_ to have him," Jason cut his involuntary intake of breath, sharp and agitated, off before he followed it up with something derisive and inappropriate. He clenched his fingers and looked away, toward the door. Tim was somewhere beyond it grinning like a maniac. He didn't deserve…_that_, or, Jason's scorn over old wounds still scabbed over and undone round the corners, leaking crimson. He was only a kid, still.

If Bruce noticed Jason's reaction – for what it was – he gave no indication, continuing solemnly, "He's been losing…everyone, all around him, since the start… His parents. You," Jason started at that, looking at Bruce, who had his eyes on Jason, too. Jason didn't know what to say, how to ask what the hell he even meant, but, Bruce didn't pause to let him anyway. "Me. His friends… Robin. I… Always thought it would…only be a matter of time, before…_we_ lost _him_ – only…not…like _that_," Bruce's tone was breathy and his voice quiet. He'd dropped his gaze again, and Jason sat deeper into the chair, in need of distance. He thought he'd seen a shimmer of tears at the corner of Bruce's eyes, and it—

He didn't know what to do with that.

"We checked the last case he'd been working on," when Bruce looked up he was all composed Batman again. He cleared his throat, though, his voice sounding breathy and thin. There was a glass of water on the man's nightstand and, if Jason was anyone else he thought, he'd probably be scooping it up and holding it for Bruce to drink. "Checked…_everything_. Came up empty. And then…when I thought _you_…could shed some light, you – you were gone, too. Every," his limp fingers still hanging off the bed twitched, rose in a little dismissive wave, before his hand went limp again as if it had never moved, "safe house, every…one didn't know…where you were, and I—" he cut off, swallowed, and Jason shifted in his seat.

"Keeping tabs on me, old man," he asked rhetorically, no humour and no anger in his tone, but, Bruce's lips twitched into the smallest of smiles.

"Always…Jason," he breathed, quietly.

Jason briefly scowled at the floor. "What made you think I could…'shed some light?'" he asked.

"You were working the same case."

"Heh," Jason couldn't help a little snort of laughter, self-deprecating though it was. He'd been trying to be _so_ careful. "Replacement has always been your best detective," he mumbled.

"Hm. He was," Bruce nodded. "He thought you were…pushing the drug, at first," Jason scowled at that, but didn't interrupt with a heated defence – Timmy had caught onto the truth eventually. "Part of your trade, but – that wasn't it. You were after the source…same as him. Trying to get it _off_ the streets."

Jason nodded into the following almost-silence, "Yeah. I was," he confirmed.

"And…how's that going?"

"None of your business," Jason answered plainly, calmly, watching his old mentor's face.

Bruce didn't look surprised.

"Finish your story," Jason said, when the silence between them had dragged on too long, and the slow, steady rhythm of the heart monitor on the other side of the bed was getting too loud for him to bear.

"We contemplated; perhaps…they'd gotten to you, too. So I tracked down a couple sellers – big men, tough. No match, for…'_The Batman_,'" his fingers twitched again, and Jason blinked at his tone.

Batman had always been, he'd thought, Bruce's…armour, sometimes. And his soul, his _real_ self, even as Bruce and Brucie Wayne were parts of him, too. And for all the things he'd ever done wrong, the mistakes he'd made, the accidents he'd caused, while wearing the cowl – he'd never once, afterward, sounded like _this_ about that part of him. He'd never been _too_ confident or _too_ sure of himself when he'd gone out in the mask – not since he'd started, at least, the way he'd told Jason stories as a kid—

And Jason could recall, suddenly, jumping up from his seat on the staircase, tattered book in hand, to rush back to his room before Alfred could find him. The old butler had come up to check on him, and Jason had feigned sleep as best he knew how. But he couldn't fall asleep for the life of him, and so he'd gone wandering once he was certain Alfred had returned to the cave. He'd ended up in Bruce's room. In his chair – _this chair?_ And had fallen asleep there, curled into a ball and clutching his book to his chest.

He'd woken up, a thick blanket draped all around him, to Bruce sitting on the edge of his bed, watching Jason, looking thoughtful. Jason had been scared, but Bruce didn't say anything. Ushered him down to breakfast. After the second time Jason had dared napping in Bruce's chair, the man had advised he take the bed instead, less he get a crick in the neck, and when Jason, too tempted not to, _did_ take the bed, he'd been the one sitting at its edge in the morning, watching Bruce in the armchair.

He'd had his feet on the bed, his back on the seat of the chair, arms loosely crossed and his chin resting on his chest. Jason had grinned, and laughed at the way Bruce seemed to creak and moan like some un-dead creature come back to life, he'd thought at the time, as Bruce had sat up, amused despite himself.

Eventually, Jason had gone back to the staircase, too old to still be sleeping in his dad's bed, but not too old – never too old, too sure – to wait for him to come home. And maybe sometimes get tucked in. And ask for a story.

Bruce had always told the best kinds of stories – because they were real, and wonderful. _He_ was real.

_More_ so, _now_, than ever before. The Batman…was only a man.

Jason blinked, pulled from his reverie at Bruce's next words, realising he'd missed part of the tale, "—breathed it in before I'd even realised—"

"Uh, wait," Jason cut in, feeling stupid, "The…drug, you mean?"

Bruce nodded, patiently, and added, "I didn't know what it was – caught me by surprise," he admitted quietly. "My head was…full of other things…" he scowled off to the side, briefly, plainly annoyed with himself. Perhaps, Jason thought, not even particularly at inhaling a deadly drug, but rather just the general lack of attention for what had been going on. Jason remembered those parts of his lessons – always be vigilant, always be aware of your surroundings, never let your mind wander—

"Smelled, _sweet_," Bruce continued; thoughtful, it sounded. "Was…just a scent, _hanging_ in the air, suddenly – a puff of…_gas_, or…invisible, I…didn't even know they'd…_released_ it, until, _after_—"

"So, wait – it's an aerosol, now?" Jason interrupted again, leaning forward in his seat without realising. "I didn't know that," he mumbled, thoughts drifting from Bruce's story back to his case.

The drug had started out as a pill. Bodies followed in its wake. Jason had assumed the…"victims," for lack of a more appropriate term, had merely overdosed, but further research into the case had revealed that most had barely taken two of the things, if so many. It offered a fleeting, blissful, unaware-of-the-world kind of high, and left its victims falling fast and hard – to their _deaths_.

It disappeared off the streets for a short while, and Jason hadn't learned any of this until after its return. It had not been back long before Jason had spied Red Robin spraining his wrist in an alleyway near his turf – exclusive to powder form this time, but still lethal even though the body count had dropped exponentially since its first run round the block. Still, Jason had been hesitant to assume whoever was manufacturing it was still in the test-phase and killing wasn't the end-game.

Especially with the Bat's new intel – product on the street was still causing eventual deaths even without continuous use, it only took a lot longer before it got there, or, in some very lucky cases, it didn't get there at all. But none of what was being sold was airborne.

It wasn't a dissipating liquid, or a canned vapour, or anything – it was only the powder. Jason only had intel on the _powder_.

Either they only had the one supply of aerosol, or had several for defensive purposes only, in case they got cornered by vigilantes – or a _specific_ vigilante and they'd only needed the one supply exclusively for taking out The Batman – _or_, they were saving whatever else they had to release it on a _much_ larger scale—

Like, say, all of Gotham City?

_Shit_.

Idly, Jason scratched at his bandage-covered stitches through his shirt, lost in his thoughts—

_Shit_.

He _really_ hoped they hadn't decided to lace their weapons with the damn thing—

"You're not listening…"

Jason's head snapped up, realising he _had_, in fact, not been listening, "Er, what'd'you say?" he mumbled, ignoring the heat on the tips of his ears.

There was the tiniest shadow of a smile playing at Bruce's lips. He ignored Jason's question, "I'd forgotten…that look you get, on your face…when you're thinking," he sighed, oddly blissful. "Trying to solve my cases before me…" he was looking past Jason now, like he was lost in a memory. Jason thought to say something, might have even, when Bruce looked back at him, serious, "What were you thinking of, just now?"

Jason swallowed, uneasy, and leaned back in the chair again, still feeling too close, "I…" if he was right, there probably wasn't any way he could carry on doing this by himself. Jason was by no means an idiot – the old Bat's brood were good for a ton of things and Jason had used them before whether they knew it or not. Besides which, this was their home as much as it was his and he wasn't so much of an ass he'd ignore that. "I need to get back to work," he said thus, "If it's an airborne thing now, for all we know they might be planning on releasing it on the entire city. We need to find them, and stop them—"

"You don't even know who '_they_' are," Bruce interrupted, his voice enough to shut Jason up even though he'd spoken just as quietly, levelly, as he'd been the entire time.

Jason paused for the span of a heartbeat before he answered, though he wasn't entirely certain Bruce hadn't just been making a statement, rather than asking a question, "No, I don't," he said plainly, a tiny twinge of exasperation at the edge of his tone. "I've been trying to find them, but I haven't – and Tim hadn't either, did he?" Jason didn't give Bruce time to reply, he already knew the answer to that, "But—" he'd thought of something else, "You must've already thought about that – you've been sick for weeks," he trailed off into a mutter, playing it out for himself, "Known about this for weeks, and, you wouldn't just let it go, a potential threat to the _entire_ city—"

"I wouldn't worry, about '_them_,' Jason," Bruce said, and Jason scowled up at him, blinked.

"What? You took care of it?" he scathed.

As unaffected as ever by his tone, Bruce answered easily, "Something like that."

"And at what point during your _fatal illness_, did you find the time?"

"Right around the time we found Ti—you. _You_ found Tim. And we…rescued him. Right around then."

Jason stared; he'd been so sarcastic, not actually expecting to receive an answer, but – he should have known better. He was talking to _Batman_, after all.

"I…haven't _thanked_ you, for that—"

Jason cut him off before he could, "And you just weren't going to tell me that you'd resolved my case all by yourself?" he scowled.

Bruce looked, for a moment, like he was resisting a longsuffering sigh, "You weren't speaking to me."

Jason's scowl deepened at that, "_Dick_ could've said," he snapped, swiped one hand through the air, prickled also at his newfound annoyance at Dick for keeping this from him, "I had a right to know!"

"That's not in dispute, Jason," Bruce replied, unperturbed. "Of course you did, and, I would have told you – explained. But…you weren't speaking to me—"

"So now it's _my _fault?" Jason snapped. "Just like every _other_ damn thing!" he blinked, annoyed, and got to his feet.

Bruce did sigh, then. "Dick didn't know. I never told him. That you were working the case. That I inhaled their drug when I did," another sigh. "Or that the pe—ople responsible for manufacturing it…were taken care of. Dick doesn't know that."

Jason had turned his back on the old man, a few steps from the bed and the chair, his hands clenched against his hips in frustration. He shook his head at his feet, and looked up at the ceiling, exasperated, "And why the hell would you do that?" he asked rhetorically, turning as he spoke, "Have you _honestly_ not learned this lesson before? You don't _share_ the things that happen with you, and _this_ is the kind of crap that goes down next!" he gestured at Bruce. "And—on-on top of _everything_ else, you really think Nightwing's going to sit idly by while, so far as he knows, there's still a deadly drug on the streets—?"

"Yes," Bruce cut in, firmly, "Because, I told him to."

Jason chuckled, low and hollow and derisive; he threw up his hands, "_Of course_ – of course! Batman snaps his fingers and Nightwing asks how high to jump – come down, too? Take a swing round the high-rise?" he was half-pacing, jittery with annoyance and frustration, and spite, unable to look at Bruce too long but never able to fully turn away either, "'Where do you want me?'" he mocked, swiping one hand through the air before he finally came to a stop, back to Bruce after all, arms crossing tight against his heaving chest.

He breathed, and blinked, and grit his teeth, shoulders stiff and strained, and breathed some more, slow as he could, desperate to calm down and feeling stupid and annoyed at himself.

"…You know that's not true," Bruce mumbled behind him, not incoherent enough he couldn't make it out.

Jason scowled, because yes – he _did_ know. He _knew_ it wasn't true. Dickie never jumped when he didn't want to himself. It's the very _reason_ he'd become Nightwing in the first place – defiant of Batman's wishes to keep him from the field. It was often the topic of their arguments, Jason could recall – Dick's penchant for disobeying orders when he didn't believe whatever Bruce was doing or requesting was the right call. But sometimes, even when it didn't seem to be, Dick would do what Bruce wanted anyway, seeing some bigger picture he couldn't argue against.

He obeyed about as much as he did his own thing – and he was always adamant about that: _his own thing_. Part of Jason had admired him a little bit for it, imagined that, one day, that would be Jason – doing _his_ own thing. Only, he'd half-sworn to himself he'd do it different. He hadn't liked arguing with Bruce and he hadn't liked the thought of just running off and becoming a hero by himself. On his own terms, eventually, sure – maybe – but…not without Bruce's blessing.

So fucking much for that idea.

…

…

…

Jason couldn't find it in himself to agree, though – to admit that, yes, Dick wasn't the poster boy for following orders, because…as rebellious as he might have been, he was loyal and trustworthy, and perfect, and Bruce's _perfect_ partner, always. He could _always_ come back and wrap Bruce right around his little finger again, while Jason—

It irked him, feeling this way about Dick – almost especially now, when Jason had seen the hopelessness in Dickie's eyes minutes before – how long had he been in here? – and he felt _guilty_ for thinking badly of Dick when he was already a downed dog kicked in the side, and the universe hated them all and was killing their father, and—

But Jason couldn't help it. Couldn't help comparing Dick to himself, like he always had – like Bruce always had, like—

Because Dick might lose his temper and his explanation might be heated and equally annoyed as Bruce's rebuttal, but eventually, he'd end up convincing the Dark Knight that whatever he'd done had been the right thing, and Bruce—

Jason had crossed a line somewhere – maybe he'd stepped over it several times, but always came back, until – maybe he'd stayed on the other side the day he couldn't stop Felipe Garzonas falling off his damn balcony—

Jason could always be…some _semblance_ of forgiven, but Batman never quite _forgot_—

He'd always be the disobedient Robin. The _bad_ one. The _failure_. The one who got himself killed, because—

That's what it looked like, didn't it?

Jason hadn't told anyone, ever, that his mother had _handed him over_ to the Joker, to be beaten bruised and bloodied and blown up for good measure—

Why _would_ he? It—_hurt_. _Fuck_.

—it must have, just seemed, like Jason had gotten himself caught and beaten and blown up, because he got reckless and careless and disobedient and out of control, like the _bad_ fucking Robin he was—

But he _wasn't_.

He wasn't _really_ – he hadn't been—

He'd been – he'd _tried_ – to be a _good_ Robin, didn't he?

To be a _good_ partner, a _good_ little soldier—

To make—

—Bruce—_proud_—

And Dick, and—

—

—

Jason wanted to ask, what exactly Bruce had said to Dick to make him leave the case alone—

"—_Jason_?" he flinched, Bruce's voice filling his ears as if through a hazy dream he'd been _so_ caught up in his own thoughts, and, when he came back to himself, abrupt and all at once, he was unprepared to find himself so undone—

Jason bit at his trembling bottom lip, hard, and he winced at the strain on his chest when he crossed his arms tighter, shoulders hunching – he blinked, hard, and kept his eyes closed against the wetness behind them.

He needed to pull himself together.

"Chum…" Bruce breathed at his back, and Jason scowled. "…What are you thinking…?"

"Don't call me that," Jason choked, and scowled harder, not having meant to sound like that. He relaxed his arms, slumped his shoulders, with effort, and _breathed_, carefully, "The…" he swallowed, shifted and turned his head, "The drugs – if you, _took care of it_, why are there still drugs on my streets?" he hadn't meant to ask – he'd _meant_ to ask about Dick, but the thought had slipped his mind—

Bruce took a moment, as if he was weighing the need to answer the question against the desire to ask something else, because, Jason knew, Bruce was well aware that hadn't been his thoughts.

He'd been far away – on another continent, being a bad Robin beaten to death—

"The manufacturer—s," Bruce tacked the "s" on belatedly, and Jason frowned, letting himself be pulled from his thoughts to focus on what the man was saying, turning half around to watch his face, "Won't be producing any _more_ of the drug," Jason idly fingered the bandage under his shirt, eyes narrowing – Bruce was hiding something, his eyes on Jason's fingers shifting back and forth. "What you're seeing, on the streets, is…extra. They're probably trying to…get rid of it, quick as they can. Sloppy. It's why," Bruce met his eyes, "I expect, you haven't been having too much trouble, tracking them down, lately…" Jason's fingers stilled against his chest, his hand dropping. "…Are you—?"

"I'm fine," Jason cut in, not kindly.

"…Going to sit down again…?" Bruce asked, like Jason hadn't spoken.

"No," he decided, firmly, brushing off an embarrassed feeling before it could fully form, and turned all the way around to face Bruce, stuffing his hands in his pockets where he could keep them clenched out of sight. "What did you tell Dick?" he demanded, getting back to his first thought before acting on the newest one, "Why isn't Nightwing out there working on destroying the remaining drugs?"

Bruce glanced away, jaw stiffening briefly, before he regarded Jason once more, "I convinced him…GCPD is taking care of it – that they have everything they need, and it's no concern of ours anymore—"

"But they don't, and they're not, are they?" Jason interrupted. "Because this started on _my_ turf, and it was _my_ case first, and there are no cops there, because that's where cops get turned or killed, and you wouldn't put them there just like that. You're leaving this for _me_ to clean up, but you're _lying_ to Dick and the cops about it!"

"Yes. I am," Bruce admitted plainly, tone leaking the same kind of authority that had Jason sitting up straight when he was a kid, "And I expect you to do the same—"

"Like _shit_, old man," Jason snapped, shoulders squared and hands out of his pockets, "The hell makes you think I'd do that?" not that he had any desire to work with Nightwing on this, and not only because he and the Red Hood were technically at odds and opposite ends, but also – Dickie had his hands full here, and Jason didn't need to pile onto that when he was, in fact, perfectly capable of taking care of this himself – but, _but_—he was _so_ damn tired of Bruce's secrets, and his lies, and the way he was, _still_, even on his damn deathbed, convincing people to let him rule their lives—

Jason had half a mind to point that out plainly and then rip him a new one for it, too—

"Because I _saw_," Bruce raised his voice for the first time, and it boomed and cracked, and made Jason take half a step back, surprised, "_His face_, Jason…" he ended Jason's name in a breathy whisper, and Bruce's steel blue eyes dropped, his gaze on his sheets rather than Jason's face. Jason was startled, at Bruce's tone, what he'd said – answering Jason's very first question, "Dickie's face…" Bruce whispered, voice hoarse. "Tim's, with the—" he didn't finish the thought, but Jason could fill in the word for himself – "grin" – "and, _Alfred_…Cassandra…I…and I _know_," he looked up again, and Jason swallowed. "Whose fault that is..." his lips moved, "_mine_," but there was no sound.

Jason was torn, between feeling regret at having asked the question, and—feeling empowered, because, "Tell me who manufactured the drug," he said into the stunning silence that had followed, before he'd even given it proper thought.

Bruce shook his head, slow, as if pulling himself out of whatever state of mind had come with his confession, "…No."

"Why not – it's _my_ case—"

"It's not important anymore," Bruce replied, simply, shifting his gaze, turning his head, dismissive.

"Of course it is," Jason retorted. "_Tell_ me—" every effort he'd ever made at finding the drug's source had come up empty, like it simply didn't exist and no one _knew_ who was really behind it, every lead led to another led to a dead-end – what had Batman done differently to figure it out? "Tell me or I'm telling Dick everything," Jason said, cold and serious as he could. "I'll tell all of them."

Bruce narrowed his eyes at him. He hadn't come here for this, Jason had to remind himself, but – Bruce was planning on taking this to the grave, very literally. There was more to it. There was a reason. There was some significance behind the identity of Jason's mystery drug manufacturer, and this—

This would come back to bite the next Batman – because there _was_ going to be another, Jason knew – in the ass, and then… _Well_.

Unless Bruce was leaving it in another holographic will or a triple-encrypted file (which didn't feel like the case to Jason), him just _telling someone_ was going to be in everyone's best interest down the line if they were going to survive whatever revenge the jailed manufacturer got to cooking up on their vacation in prison. They already had a formula for a deadly poison that was slowly killing _The Batman_.

Jason was in no mood – was never going to _be_ in any mood – to deal with whatever came after that.

Vaguely the thought came to mind that Gordon might know – obviously Dick and Alfred and Cassandra (and Tim…) didn't know, because if they did Bruce wouldn't have had such a hang-up telling Jason, too. But if the culprit was in prison, Gordon must know who it is—

"You do that, Jason…" Bruce started, tone ominous, glare unwavering and cold, "And whatever they do with that…will be on _you_."

Jason started, shoulders slumping. He stared, unconcerned with what his face might look like, because he wasn't scowling or glaring or frowning anymore, and he felt – guilty, and cheated, and stupid, and undeserving of—he didn't even know what—

Bruce's blue eyes flitted left and right, searching his face for something, perhaps some kind of reaction, or an indication that he wasn't going to spill Bruce's secrets after all – because, Jason realised, he wasn't – until at last, he spoke, quiet, and genuinely curious, "…Why are you _here_…Jason…?"

"I'm here, because Alfre—d," he half-paused, having started up his answer too quick, too defensive, without taking in the implication behind Bruce's question, "Asked…" he mumbled. "And, Tim, said—" but he choked off at the end of that, a vice round his throat suddenly, cutting off air – because—because—had they been _lying_ to him? Bruce—hadn't really asked to see him—?

He'd been so caught up, in the request, in the thought of coming, in the attempt to keep his promise – so taken by their words and their urging – and he _had_, he _had_ doubted—

Was asking him to the manor even a thing Bruce would do—?

But Dick, and Alfred, and then Tim, also – and Cassandra, even – he—they'd—_lied_?

Jason caught himself, blinking like a deer in the headlights, feeling his chest tighten, and his voice sounded thin when he forced himself to speak, "I—I think I, I've heard everything I needed to," he mumbled, quick and dismissive, waving a hand and not looking at Bruce, turning for the door, "I'll just go—"

"Wait," Bruce was saying, and then louder, more urgently, "_Jason_—!"

And Jason couldn't help but pause, fingers round the doorknob, his other hand on the doorframe, and all of him rigid and stunned, and—

—frightened.

"I – I didn't mean to _imply_—" Bruce spoke, breathy and quick behind him, fumbling with his words, "Of course I knew, you were coming, and I—" a pause, and Jason heard the heart-monitor, frantic, beeping into the silence, "Jason?" his voice lost none of its urgency, but it softened considerably. "Turn around, Jason…come _here_," it wasn't a command by any means, but neither was the old man begging at all. It was a request. A polite one at that.

Jason's fingers twitched against the doorknob, and he stared at the wooden frame, blinking tears off his eyelashes.

He didn't know what to do—

All at once, everything felt like it had come crashing down and he hadn't even known it was teetering overhead—

"I can't get up out of this _damned bed_, kiddo," Bruce half-snarled at him, "Come _back here, Jason_."

Jason felt himself shaking his head, slowly. He wanted to say something, come up with some or other excuse – anything not to turn around, have Bruce see _his_ face, too – but the words wouldn't form in his head or his throat—

"_Please_, chum," Bruce breathed, and Jason's shoulders shook involuntarily. "I'm…I'm _happy_ you're here, Jason. Just…come _sit_ – let's talk. Please?"

"Quit your whining, old man," Jason snapped, as best his could, but his voice betrayed him – strained and hitched.

He uncurled his fingers from the doorknob, swiped roughly at his cheeks, blinking back the remaining moisture in his eyes even as he spoke, as calloused as he could, "Sheesh – really? Since when do you _beg_?" he mumbled, little heat to his words, and he turned back around at last, unable to keep a loose posture as he marched back to the chair. He avoided Bruce's eyes, but didn't miss the relieved sigh escaping the old man's lips, or the way he settled back against the pillows – he'd been pushed up onto one arm, leaning over, in the direction of the door, his other arm out from under the bedding and reaching—

He left it against his chest now, and Jason had to take another look at it for the scars there, across the back of his hand, creeping up his arm…

Jason swallowed, resting his hands heavily on the armrests and sinking slowly onto the seat, sitting on the edge of the chair.

"I'm sitting," he scathed, half-hearted though it was, and ran shaky fingers through his hair, avoiding eye-contact, "_Now_ what?"

"…It looks good on you – the white, little streak," Bruce opined very quietly, like he meant it for himself more than anything, but Jason's eyes snapped to his—

"We are not discussing my _fucking hair_," he said fiercely, fingers balled back into fists, his heart hammering in his chest.

He'd been trying so hard to keep it all back, keep it at bay, keep it—_buried_—stalling with talk about the case, and Bruce's condition, but,_ now_—

Jason could tell they were done talking about that, and Bruce—Bruce was going to make him talk about everything else. He didn't know if he wanted to – if he was _ready_, for that, for _fixing_ things, if they even _could_—

"No…" Bruce agreed quietly, dropping his gaze, "I…I guess we have more important things," he swallowed, scarred fingers twitching in a way Jason thought – thought might have been _nervousness_. "To discuss…Um, I'm – not sure where…" Bruce shook his head. "What would you like," he started, looking up, speaking quietly, "To talk about, Jason?"

Jason's breath caught, and he half-choked out a sob before he could stop himself, slapping one hand hard across his mouth and ducking his head, his eyes closed but not containing the moisture there—

He hadn't been expecting that, and he couldn't – think, or breathe, or control himself anymore.

"Jason," Bruce spoke urgently, and Jason could swear he s_ensed_ Bruce reaching for him.

"_Nothing_—" he breathed, and choked through his tears, sobbing into his hand and bending so far forward his forehead nearly touched his knees. His shoulders were shaking uncontrollably, "I don't want to—talk about—a-anything—"

"Alright," Bruce said at once, even before Jason had finished speaking. He sounded oddly…_soothing_, to Jason's ears, but the quiet and the comfort only made Jason cry harder, "Alright," Bruce didn't let up on the tone, though, and his fingers brushed lightly against the top of Jason's head. "It's alright…son…it's alright—"

"'m not your son," Jason choked, lifting his head far enough to glanced up, but his sight was blurry with unshed tears laying thick in his eyes, so he dropped his head back onto his knees, clutching his jeans with one hand, the other still stiff on the armrest, clenched incredibly tight, "'m no one's-s-s s-son," he choked, sniffed, breath tight and halting in his throat, his words slurring and his tongue thick. It was an old mantra that bore repeating, even as he'd thought of Bruce as his father – before—_before_—and sometimes, sometimes _still_, but not really, and it didn't matter, because—

"'m not your—s-s'n," he mumbled, again and again, trying – _trying_ – to stifle his pathetic sobbing, but not managing in the least.

"I know…" Bruce whispered, and his hand, having pulled back when Jason reared himself up, came back to rest against his head. "I know…" and he ran his fingers through Jason's hair, pushing it back from his forehead like he meant to see Jason's face, or coax him back up, so Jason curled deeper into himself, his hands coming up to clutch at his hair, arms tight against the sides of his head. "…Jason…"

But Jason hardly heard, his crying half-drowning out whatever else Bruce was saying, his own broken voice escaping sharply through his lips, tearing at his throat, loud even as he tried to muffle the sound against his knees—

He kept shaking, and tugging at his hair, and choking on his sobs, chest heaving, breath hitching—

He could feel his cheeks and his chin and his eyes – _wet, wet, **wet**—_

And Jason could only faintly make out, on and off beyond the wailing, sobbing sounds escaping his throat like heady tugs on his soul—Bruce's whispers, "It's alright, kiddo…I know… I know…" his hand having shifted from Jason's hair to his clutching fingers instead, just sitting there as the old man mumbled. "It's alright…Jay…it's alright…I—it's alright—"

And Jason found, he couldn't stop.

Couldn't stop.


	10. interlude: the burden of brotherhood

**~the burden of brotherhood~  
**

* * *

"It may be the wrong decision, but fuck it, it's mine."

― Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves

* * *

Jason shut the door at his back and leaned against it, his hand lingering on the handle a few moments longer.

He felt drained, and defeated, after how long they'd spent talking, but saying nothing.

…

Jason hated to think coming had been a pointless endeavour, but…

Red Hood had more work to do, and, while things felt clearer, if more painful, Jason Todd's life was more upside-down now than it ever had been before. Because despite all the talk, nothing had actually changed, had it?

Jason pressed his palms to his closed eyes and sunk to the floor.

The lights in the hallway had an orange glow to them that was making his head throb.

…

Or maybe that was the long day.

"…Shit," he sighed, shaking his head.

"I'd reprimand your language, sir…" Alfred's voice drifted through a sudden ring in Jason's ears. He hadn't even heard the butler approach. "But…I suppose you're old enough now to know better."

A breathy laugh passed his lips and Jason lowered his hands and raised his head, meeting Alfred's weathered old gaze, "One would think, Al," he mumbled.

Alfred held out a glove-less hand for him to take and Jason didn't hesitate, adding his other to Alfred's wrist as he pushed himself to his feet more than pulling up with the butler's strength.

Alfred was by no means a weak man, Jason knew, but…

Not for the first time he was struck with the thought – what the hell was all of this, doing to _him_?

Alfred who had pretty much taken the place of – well, never _that_—stepped into the role—of a little eight year old boy's parents – mom and dad both – at the drop of a—pair of bleeding bodies—hat?

No questions asked.

When Bruce told him of his intentions to wear a bat-styled suit and scale rooftops at night – what questions had the butler posed? What arguments had they had? How many, before Alfred had agreed to help Bruce, if he hadn't from the first?

When Bruce planned to adopt Dickiebird – how many questions did Alfred have for him then?

When Jason himself had come along? When he had died?

Tim, when he'd wormed his way in?

Fuckit – every fucking moment since all this shit started—

"Al…" Jason began, wondering at how he'd never thought – had he ever? – to ask this, before—only, he found, even if he had thought to before, he couldn't ask that. Not of Alfred. "How…" he dropped his gaze, squeezed Alfred's old hand still between both his own, "Are you?"

"You've already asked, sir," faint amusement coloured the butler's tone, but it was a pale thing. "I dare say not much has changed in twenty-four hours," he patted the back of Jason's hand, and the younger man nodded, loosened his grip, allowing Alfred to slip his hand free.

Jason stuffed his own in his pockets.

"Has it, sir?" the old man prodded, tone discreet, and—

Jason could feel the heat returning to the backs of his eyes, blinked it away. He shook his head, not looking up. A beat passed, before he could say, "I'm sorry, Alfred, I just—"

"Indeed, sir," the butler cut him off, not unkindly, briefly squeezing Jason's shoulder. He said nothing more and Jason, liberated from any obligation to explain himself or divulge any of his conversation with Bruce, finally looked up to meet the old man's gaze.

There was a deep, if quiet, understanding there.

Alfred nodded, thus, and turned down the hall. Jason followed just behind, letting himself be escorted to the front door as though Jason had presented the family's most loyal member with a thorough, impressive argument completely justifying why he wasn't about to stay, and spend the night at—

Home.

Where his father was sick. And dying.

The way a good son was expected—_supposed_—to do.

…

…

…

…

"Alfred—" Jason stopped, the silence hanging in the hallway an unexpectedly welcome medication for his and Bruce's words from earlier. Weighted but not heavy, and filled, not with his pained shrieks or his real mother's hitching sobs in his ears, but with nothingness, and release he'd been so filled to the brim with he'd hardly realized how far they'd walked until his eye caught sight of the door. "Can we—?" Dickie's room at his back. "Could I…take a look?" he barely whispered, apprehensive at the prospect.

Alfred had stopped short at the request, and half-turned toward Jason, hands still clasped behind his back. The butler watched him, for a moment, and Jason couldn't think of what he might have seen, before Alfred nodded once, "I suppose a small detour is…not to be sneezed at."

The quirk at the corner of Jason's mouth, and the raise of one eyebrow at the phrase did not escape the butler's notice as Alfred crossed the hall toward the young lad's old door and took hold of the handle. It hadn't been locked since Jason was discovered alive and vengeful in a familiar alley one cloudy night.

While Master Tim had never, to Alfred's knowledge, set a foot inside his predecessor's former quarters, Tim's successor had had no qualms or delusions of respect over it. Indeed, Alfred had caught the once youngest of his ward's brood inside their lost Robin's room on many occasions – rifling through a fifteen-year-old's forgotten trinkets, possessions, obsessions—books.

He'd confessed, once, in a manner that sounded nothing like confessing, of course, that no one, save Alfred, ever looked for him in the formerly deceased Robin's room and that was, sometimes, why he preferred it.

Why it intrigued him.

Alfred did not divulge that he only looked for the boy in this particular room because he'd discovered him there the first time by pure coincidence, and thus knew where to find him again – for Alfred knew just as well as Master Damian had, the fascination behind this particular bedroom, and the yearning feeling of being simultaneously lost and found it offered.

Alfred would be lying if he said he was not hoping, like Master Dick did, that they could place this once lost piece of their familial puzzle back into a spot where it fit perfectly, and while it was plain that it would take more than an entire afternoon and evening's conversing to persuade Master Jason to stay, Alfred was, deviously, hopeful some physical evidence of the lamentable emptiness his absence had left in their lives – Bruce's particularly – might come closer to bringing him home.

Alfred turned down the handle of his boy's old bedroom, thus, and swung the door open with his back to it, watching Jason from the corner of his eye.

Apprehension lingered in the young man's gaze, if not the firm set of his jaw; determined – precisely as he had been, at twelve years old. He hadn't known what to expect then and, Alfred knew, Jason didn't know what to expect now, either. The same impersonal guest room as years ago, with its thick curtains drawn, hiding the sun from nothing more than a bed and a desk with a chair, and an old, empty bookcase?

Jason only paused briefly at the threshold, a familiar heaviness leaning against his soul, weighing him down and pushing him forward in equal measure, before he strode into the room as if it still belonged to him—only to stop abruptly a handful of paces inside.

A strangled noise caught in his throat and Jason crossed his arms tight over his chest, eyes darting around – over the creased burgundy covers on his bed, the cream-coloured pillows at the head, dented as if someone had sat on them—

—his old guitar in the corner just on the other side—

—dark curtains pulled back to let the light in—

—the desk across from his bed, the bookcase against the adjacent wall—

—and he could see—

—the way he'd slide across the carpet in his chair from the desk to the bookcase and back—

"It's—still," he started, twisted in Alfred's direction without taking his eyes off the room, "It's still all the same," it was a statement, not a question, and he sounded—startled—to his own ears. "_Why_?"

Alfred didn't answer at once, was too quiet, and Jason spun, all the way around, to face him.

Alfred appeared more solemn than usual, his gaze on the floor and his silver brows knit together.

For the life of him, Jason couldn't remember what Alfred had looked like before – before Jason had died. How much younger had he been? How much younger had he _looked_? How much _deeper_ had the lines on his old face gotten as the years had slipped past?

How many _more_ before—

—

Jason swallowed thickly.

"Master Bruce—" Alfred started, but stopped, uncertain. "Well. This was _your_ room, sir," he said at last, more composed. He looked up, "It will always be yours, sir, whether you choose to live in it, or not."

Jason couldn't keep Alfred's gaze, the tightness in his throat only tightening more. He looked away – turned away again – scrubbing a hand through his hair, briefly tugging.

There was an old record player on a small table by the window seat – wide and filled with pillows Jason didn't remember owning – all his records and CD's haphazardly scattered on the floor around the table, books with their spines bent lying on the cushions—

"Then why does it look so—" he stepped forward, feeling incredibly out of place – more than he had on the porch, or in the foyer downstairs, or in Bruce's room—

"Occupied…?" he breathed, eyes falling onto a stack of bound paper on the bed and his feet moving automatically closer.

He fingered the corner of the first page—

_Beauty and the Beast_.

"Whilst Master Bruce has an impressive collection of literature," Alfred said, coming up beside him, his old eyes on Jason's haphazardly constructed collection of fairy tales. "They are not quite suitable for a novice reader, as opposed to many of yours, and, Miss Cassandra does, admittedly, enjoy the atmosphere in your room, sir. I don't quite have the heart to reprimand her for it," Alfred added, almost conspiratorially, and the corner of Jason's mouth quirked up before he could catch himself. "In any case," Alfred shrugged, straightening, and Jason narrowed his eyes at the butler – he knew that look, "Miss Cassandra is eager to improve her reading skills, and, whilst your penmanship leaves something to be desired," Alfred looked pointedly at the hand-made excuse for a book, "I directed her to your excellent collection of audio material to accompany it."

Jason's expression changed at once, mouth open in a stunned gape as he stared at the butler – and there it was, the barest shadow of amusement round the old man's mouth that may as well have been a white-toothed grin on anyone else's face.

"_Alfred_," Jason said, just short of a groan, "You _didn't_," but he'd already looked back at the window seat and was striding around the double-bed towards it even as Alfred answered—

"Well, sir, I couldn't very well deprive the girl of developing her reading abilities, now could I?"

Jason had found the old yellow walkman – something of Dick's when he'd been a kid – still in the same condition as it had been the last time he'd seen it, little bats scribbled all over its yellow surface in permanent black marker and all. It sported a newer set of earphones than the ones Jason vaguely recalled, as he held one up to his ear and pressed "Play" on the device. It started and stopped, however, with a whirr, and Jason popped the cover open to easily slip out the cassette inside and turn it around, before, with some added chagrin this time, he pressed "Play" again—

There was the sound of a throat being cleared, and then—

_"Peter Pan, written by J.M. Barrie; read to you by—uh—yeah, no, you don't have to know—um. Okay. Ahem. 'Chapter one: Peter Breaks Through... All children, except one, grow up—'" _Jason couldn't help but chuckle, and smile, glancing briefly at Alfred as he listened to his own voice—

_"—One day when she was two years old she was playing in the garden—"_

Jason's gaze drifted over the books on the window seat, the records and CD's at his feet, a little stack of more cassettes he hadn't even noticed before—

He'd forgotten about this. He'd forgotten he used to sit on this seat with a book in his lap and the nightstand with his radio pulled closer so he could talk into the speaker while he read aloud—

_"—I suppose she must have looked rather delightful—"_

—putting on airs for the heck of it as he spoke, and bending his voice to pretend at playing one character or another—

_"—'Oh, _why_ can't you remain like this for _eve'—_oh, come _on_—"_

Jason choked on half a laugh, half a sudden shortness of breath as his young voice pitched unexpectedly high, dipped deep. His knees buckled without permission, teenage Jason's throat-clearing cough falling away as the earphone dropped from between his numb fingers.

"Sir?" Alfred's concerned expression filled Jason's vision when he finally looked up, though he didn't remember looking down, or _sitting down_, for that matter. He was on the edge of the window seat, however, with Alfred bent forward in front of him, one hand behind his back and the other on Jason's shoulder.

"S'ry," Jason mumbled, and ducked his head – the walkman lay at his feet, popped open to reveal the stopped cassette inside. He let out a breath in a huff, like he was pushing his soul off a high-rise. "I—I didn't mean to—" what even? Faint? Blackout? He scrubbed at his face with both hands, combed his fingers back through his hair as Alfred's hand lifted from his shoulder. The weight of it lingered a moment longer, though.

"It's quite alright, sir," Alfred said quietly, and Jason chanced another look at him. Really looked, this time. Alfred stood regal and proper, as he always had for as long as Jason had known him – hands at his back, shoulders set, chin raised even as he was looking down at Jason now – 'at', though, never 'on.' "I understand how this is likely somewhat…_overwhelming_ for you, sir."

"Heh," Jason tilted his head in agreement, looked away as he did. "No kidding…"

"I never do, sir," Alfred said, and Jason chuckled properly, grinning up at the man.

Not for the first time, a coil of guilt spun around his insides squeezed tighter, and he swallowed, thickly. "Alfred…" he started, serious, and had to glance away again for a moment. He licked his lips. 'Overwhelming' could not begin to describe it.

The barrage of memories from the moment he'd set foot into the manor had been terrifying, not for their presence, which he had, in fact, been expecting to some degree, but rather for their overpowering nature – he'd been refusing to come inside the house, had paused at the threshold so many times for exactly that reason; not _wanting_ to remember, not knowing _what_ he might or what it would do to him. He'd been expecting, when he could, finally, no longer postpone the confrontation, to see only the worst memories from his time in the manor. They were often at the back of his mind, vague and imprecise, a feeling more than an image, but they drove him, on top of all the wrong Bruce and his brood had done Jason since his death.

He _was_ overwhelmed. Been overwhelmed to find so many content memories – in the foyer, on the staircase, down hallways, in Bruce's chair – so many…happy—_safe_—feelings he'd forgotten existed.

He'd waded through the strangeness, done what he'd come for, though – thought he'd been doing well, until—

—

—

—they were memories, but for all that they felt safe, and warm and _real_, they had not seemed it, not until Jason realised—

—it was _him_. It was truly _him_ – _his_ voice, a young kid, in his ear, and it was proof – that he'd _existed_ in this house, had _lived_ here, had _things_ here that were _his_, and there was _proof_ that they were his and he'd been _here_, and it wasn't all someone else's or some fantasy, some illusion, or his equally insane not-family humouring his own madness—

He'd been _real_. The little kid he was convinced was no longer in him—

He was here. In this abandoned bedroom. Among his things. His voice. His existence. Still hung in the air.

'Overwhelming' did not _begin_ to describe it.

"Did I ever…" he trailed off, took a breath, "Did I ever apologize…?"

"Whatever for, sir?" Alfred asked, sounding almost genuinely curious and perplexed.

Jason's shoulders sagged. "Oh, come on, Alfred," he said, and looked up at the butler only to find him smiling ever so slightly. Jason swallowed.

Alfred sat carefully down on the edge of the bed opposite Jason, letting his smile linger as he replied, "I believe you did, sir," a pause, "More than once, in fact."

Jason breathed out through his nose, nodding to himself as he looked away again – let his gaze slide over the room at large—

Alfred watched the young man get to his feet almost laboriously, as if he were unsure of what to do next or where to go, his eyes on the room and his brows knit in thought. He made as if to move away from the window, before he stopped and stooped to pick up the fallen walkman and earphones, placing them back on the window seat where he'd found them. Only then did he wander off, sliding the tips of his fingers across a stack of CD's, trailed the wall, all the while scanning the room with his blue-green eyes.

Alfred had gotten to his feet, was watching Jason take in the state of his surroundings.

There hung an old hoodie over the back of the boy's chair Alfred had never had the heart – or the guts – to hang in the closet, which occupied a corner to the left of the door, the wall between covered from floor to ceiling with framed movie posters.

Miss Cassandra had left a pair of flip-flops under the desk, Alfred noticed, and, in a bundle on the seat of the chair was—

"This isn't mine…" Jason mused, picking up the small jacket by the collar and holding it out to look at it.

"Indeed, sir," Alfred stepped forward at once, hand held out for the garment and his old heart feeling suffocated in his chest, "I'll take it, and, return it to its proper closet, sir—"

"Right," Jason mumbled, handing it over without argument. Alfred folded it over one arm, his hand lingering on the smooth fabric too long. He stepped back, out of Jason's space, and watched the boy turn to his bookcase, fingers sliding over the titles as if he were checking to see if everyone he remembered was still there. He paused, at one or two, slid them out to read the back, or flipped through the book until he came to a dog-eared page or a slip of paper pretending to be a bookmark, pausing on the page to read, what Alfred morbidly assumed, was the last sentence he'd stopped at.

"You're welcome to any of them, Master Jason," Alfred said. "They are yours, after all."

"Yeah?" Jason replied, but the book he pulled out and stuffed inside his jacket was a small, black leather-bound notebook, not a novel. "I think, I," he rubbed his hands on his jeans, poked at a stack of books on the desk, shifted a piece of paper, "I've had enough of the twilight-zone, Alfie. Um, can we—?" he half-gestured the door, and Alfred nodded.

Jason followed the butler out the door, shutting it at his back.

"That's…" he started, before he could stop himself. He pointed, at the jacket Alfred had slung over one forearm. It was black and small, and had no business being in Jason's old room since it wouldn't have fit him the last time he was in there and was obviously, thus, not his from times gone by, "…Damian's, isn't it?" he asked, quietly, not intending to make Alfred any more uncomfortable than his tightly set jaw and firmly pressed lips suggested he was, but unable to resist the overwhelming wave of curiosity.

Alfred nodded curtly in affirmation, and Jason repeated the motion.

"…Kid hung out in my room, too?" he asked after a moment, genuinely confused.

"Hm. Master Damian…" Alfred paused, only almost imperceptibly, before saying very deliberately, "Enjoyed the quiet, I believe."

"Oh, sure," Jason mumbled, looking back at the door over his shoulder, feeling…odd. The kid hadn't been that much of a menace the last time Jason had seen him, granted, but he'd never been singing Jason's praises either, not even with their last meeting, so—hearing the kid had hung out in his once-bedroom for "the quiet" of it – or any reason for that matter – definitely constituted a feeling of _oddness_.

It only dawned on Jason then—

"Alfred, is…Damian's room—?"

"Will always be Master Damian's room, sir."

Jason felt like a bobble-head, the way he just nodded again, but the coiled guilt round his gut was squeezing tighter again.

By the time he'd followed Alfred downstairs into the foyer he'd convinced himself that, for all that Bruce was one hell of a complicated father (-figure and _actual_ father, both), he certainly didn't quite _deserve_ to die, without…well. It wasn't up to Jason to tell him the truth, even if he'd had a hand in it, but—

The man deserved _something._ Not dying was sort of ideal, and, Jason fretted, taking one step in Alfred's wake after another, there was only one option he could see towards achieving that end.

"I shall wrap up something for you from dinner, sir," Alfred mused aloud, "For the road."

He was all out of favours though, and he was half-planning on going back on his word besides, but—

"Thanks, Al, but…I'm fine, really."

—maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing if they did, and, moreover, he'd owe her a favour again, _and_, Jason thought, Talia would probably love being owed another favour—

"Just kind of want to go home…"

—it wasn't often anymore Jason went to her with "I owe you's—"

"Leaving without saying good-bye, Little Wing?"

Jason stopped, his thoughts trailing off abruptly at the intrusion of Dick's voice at his back.

"I'm offended," the older man added on, jokily, if tentative.

Jason spared a glance at Alfred at his side before looking back at the door handle in front of him. They'd gotten all the way to the front doors, and now this.

"Perhaps something for the road after all, sir," Alfred said primly, turning on his heel even as Jason started on an ignored protest.

"…Yeah…sure," he relented, mumbling at Alfred's back as the old butler marched down the hallway past the stairs toward the kitchen. Only after he'd disappeared through the doorway did Jason stuff his hands in his jacket pockets, turning properly to face Dick.

The older man had plainly just come up from the cave, fresh from patrol, damp hair sticking to his forehead, and a few new bruises starting to colour his jawline to go with the split in his lip he was poking at with his tongue.

"Rough night?" Jason asked, for something to say, and Dick shrugged.

"No more than usual… You?"

"Same old…" Jason mumbled.

Dick nodded solemnly, hands in his jeans pockets.

Jason shifted his weight, feeling awkward in the heavy silence. He certainly couldn't leave before Alfred came back with a plate and Dick wasn't making any move to leave, so—

He felt stuck again, uncertainty of what to say—

"So…you and Bruce talked, then?" but of course Dickie had an idea.

Jason huffed, "Yeah. We had words."

"You fought?" Dick asked, surprised – he'd told Bruce to be nice, but really that hadn't been necessary. Bruce hadn't wanted an argument with Jason, Dick knew that much—

"No," Jason answered, meeting his eyes and quickly looking away again. He shifted his weight, "It wasn't like _that_, I…it was…" his eyes flicked toward the staircase, "We had a _colourful_ discussion," he said more decisively, and glared at Dick as he added, "And I don't care to give you a play-by-play."

Dick almost looked taken aback for a second, but he quickly schooled his expression into something seemingly _understanding_, "Yeah, okay," he said, with a tentative smile. "I didn't mean to _pry_, Jay, I just—want to know that you two are…_okay_?"

Jason swallowed thickly and pulled his hands from his pockets, half turning away as he crossed his arms. He sighed, "…It'll take more than that, Dickiebird…" he said quietly.

"What—why?" Dick asked, "I thought the two of you were going to _fix_ things—"

"Can't, Dickie…" Jason said at the wall, and Dick scoffed at his back, letting out a frustrated sound.

"I don't _understand_, Jason," he said, and took a quick breath, "Bruce is—" Jason ducked his head, briefly shutting his eyes tight. "Well, _you know_…" he said carefully. "You were in there practically _all day_ and you're telling me—" a breathy, humourless, incredulous laugh passed his lips, "—_nothing's changed_?"

Jason took a deep breath of his own, turning around, blinking, "_Look,_ Dick – I'm _sorry_, okay? I _can't just_—" he cut off, arms tightening against his chest, and his gaze turning from Dick to scowl at a dark corner in the foyer instead. The sun wouldn't be up for maybe an hour yet, and the light overhead was dim, flickering irregularly. He didn't want to see Dick's response to his words no matter how dim the lighting, though. He hadn't expected to – he'd _hoped_ not to – come across Dick – or anyone else – on his way out the door, and he felt too unprepared to explain himself properly. The words in his head were a mess – even more so coming out of his mouth.

"It's not as _simple_ as that," he tried, "A _lot_ of things—_happened_, and I—I'm sorry that he's—" Jason licked his lips, turned the other way, "But I can't just forgive him for—it's not that e_asy_, it's not _fair_—it wouldn't be _honest_—" he stopped short with a sharp intake of breath, blinking furiously at his feet.

"Okay," Dick said into the abrupt quiet, sniffing loudly, "_Okay_, I—_understand_, you don't have to…" Dick trailed off, and Jason shook his head at the floor—

"But, Jason, are you—will we see you here again, will you—?"

"No."

"Jason," Dick said, and Jason couldn't help but scowl – he sounded like he was talking someone off a ledge, "I get it, it's a lot to ask, to straighten everything out in one conversation, no matter how long it goes on, but—there's still – we still have some, _time_, before—"

"_Stop it, _Dick!" Jason barked, facing the older man and feeling like a kid again – a half-baked fantasy coming to mind, of him storming bravely down the cave steps demanding of the Bat and his first bird that they quit their arguing, and, if his presence was so damn inconvenient he'd pack up his things and leave and Dick could have Robin back, never mind what Jason had told him his first night out, running into Nightwing in the middle of the gauntlet. Jason half-remembered making it down the first couple steps before he'd turned around and sprinted back to his room on shaky legs with tears in his eyes – he didn't _want_ to give Robin back.

"I just don't want you to _regret this_," Dick said, like Nightwing, despite the tightness of his voice.

"I _won't_," Jason replied through grit teeth, his hands fisted at his sides and his chest stinging. He'd swiped his arms through the air turning, and shit, maybe he'd popped a stitch.

"I can't believe that, Jay…" Dick shook his head. "Does—Bruce _doesn't_ mean that little to you—"

"_I'm _the one who means nothing to _him_—"

"That's not true – you're _his son_!"

"I'm his _soldier_," Jason countered, voice cracking on the word and he recoiled in surprise, only to scowl at the expression on Dick's face. "That's all I ever was, and it's all I'll ever be," Jason carried on, as firmly as he could, even as Dick was shaking his head in disagreement again, "_No amount_ of talking will ever '_fix_' this, Dick, and it doesn't matter—we've said everything there was to say—"

"But nothing's _changed_," Dick repeated, desperately taking a step closer. Jason straightened up, fingers clenching tighter.

"Aren't you listening – nothing _will_," Jason insisted, "And I can't _stay here_, _pretending_, Dick! I can't pretend to be his _son_, when I know I'm not, and I can't _stay here_ like some loyal family member while he's up there breathing his _last damn breath_ – I _refuse_, that's not fair—"

"But you _are_ family, Jason – why won't you get that through your _thick head_?" Dick snapped, his infamous temper for a moment making itself known.

"_What_ do you _care_?" Jason barked back, "_Why_ is this suddenly _so_ damn important to you, Dick? You wanted nothing to do with me _before_—b-_before_ I died, _and_ after I came back – I was nothing but a _menace_ to you, a killer—"

"_I know_," Dick interrupted, and Jason had missed when he'd moved but he was right in front of him now, hands raised like he meant to touch, but didn't, and Jason had backed up so much he could almost feel the door behind him, "I _know_, Jason, and—I'm _sorry_ about that, but—" Dick's fingers curled into tight fists as he blinked, looked away and licked at the split in his lip, "_You_—" there was a sardonic laugh in his tone he couldn't hide, something bitter and resentful, "You tried to kill Tim," he managed at last, and looked back up at Jason—

There was anger in his eyes, rooted as deep as any sadness, "And I," he shook his head. "There is a little part of me, Jay, that will _never_ be able to—to _forgive you_ for that—"

Jason swallowed impulsively against the tightness in his throat, fingers twitching with the desire to do something – push Dick away, run off, say something, defend—

—but there was little he could say in his own defence that Dick would believe or accept, he knew, because—

Dick wasn't entirely wrong.

He _had_ tried to kill Tim—or, or _hurt him_, at least, but, even that much—Jason himself wasn't convinced it was all notorious Pit-madness that made him do it, and he wasn't—

—sure that, if he had to do it over—

—he'd do it different—

—and Dick wouldn't—

—_like_ that—

"—and, and Da—" Dick cut off, like the air in his throat wasn't enough to form the words with, and Jason had the sudden urge to—

—

—he could remember, when he was a kid, just starting out, and Dick flashed him a smile or told him he'd done good, how the world just—

—seemed a little brighter, because Jason fucking Todd had made his predecessor—_proud_—

"Dickie—" Jason said, uncertainly, barely a whisper—

Dick shook his head – he'd looked away, shut his eyes and lowered his hands at some point, but they were still tight fists, only _just_ not shaking—

"You disappointed me, Jason," Dick said, quiet. Jason flinched without having meant to, and couldn't quite manage to school his features into something more impassive when Dick met his eyes. "But I know it wasn't all you, and I had no right to—to really _be_ disappointed in you or angry, at _you_, we weren't—" he breathed in a steadying breath and combed stiff fingers through his hair while Jason stared, not knowing what to say one way or another, "We _weren't_ family, not _really_, before you…you know," Dick shrugged, "And I know that was more _my_ fault than yours – you, you came in at a bad time, and, you were just one more thing I could hold against Bruce, and I didn't _mean to_, Jay, but you were wearing my colours and my name after Bruce had _fired_ me because he was too concerned for my _safety_—"

Jason breathed, Dick's words twisting unintentionally in his head. Abruptly he found his voice, "I don't want to hear this, Dick—"

"But I _want_ you to – you _need_ to understand. You want to know _why_ I'm so insistent; let me explain—"

"You're guilty," Jason said, and the words were unexpectedly heavy on his tongue. Dick blinked at him, surprised. "You feel guilty. For the way you treated me, when I was a kid – for not being my '_big brother_' like you think you should have been – and this—_me_, _now_—" he gestured himself, and chuckled, scornful, "This is your second chance—to make it _right_?" it was less of a question and more a derisive statement. Jason scowled, even as Dick shook his head—

"No, Jay—"

"Don't _pretend_, Dick," Jason cut him off, and he did push at Dick's shoulders then, creating some distance between them, "_You're_ the one who feels bad about the way things were," he said, pointing a finger at Dick, "And would you look? Here I am!" he spread his arms, "Like coming back from the _damn dead_ was _just for you_—"

"That's _not_ what I meant—"

"What else is there _to mean_? You screwed up with me—"

"_Yes_, I did, but—"

"Well, I didn't come back for you—"

"I wasn't implying—"

"—or _Bruce_—"

"_Jason_—"

"Or _any_ of you—" Jason said, shoving Dick back with one hand as he came closer, and Dick, exasperated and frustrated, backed up, expression tired and annoyed, an impatient breath leaving him in a huff—

"—so you could get a chance at _feeling better_, at _fixing_ your screw-ups – you got to do that with the _Replacement_," Jason hissed, teeth grit, and in the wake of his conversation with Bruce, everything about Tim seemed to sting again—

"You're not _listening_ to me—" Dick tried again, moving to close the gap between them—

"I came back for _me_!" Jason declared, grabbing Dick by the shirt and shoving without letting go, Dick catching Jason's wrist with one hand in turn, gaze hard, defiant, even as he let Jason talk, "So _I_ could do good, so _I_ could fix things – so I could _do_," his grip tightened, "What _you_ won't, because _someone, has to_. And you just _don't_ _get that_," he emphasised, shoving hard and letting go of Dick's shirt as he made to move back, twist out of the older man's grip, but Dick held fast, pulling Jason closer and grabbing onto his elbow with his other hand to keep him both steady and in place—

Jason pushed back again, heat in his neck and his ears, and his chest, "I'm not your chance at _redemption_ or some shit—"

"Aren't you, though?" Dick challenged, shoving at Jason's arm hard enough he had to take a step back to steady himself. "Wasn't that your _entire_ plan when you came back to Gotham, Jay? To give Bruce a chance at making amends with you? You or the Joker, isn't that what you said?"

"Well he didn't _pick me_, did he?" Jason retorted, closing the gap between them and pushing at Dick with his forearm, but the acrobat held his footing, grip tightening again on Jason's wrist and elbow when he made to move back—

"Are you _done_, then?" Dick asked.

"_Let go_," Jason replied, plainly threatening, but Dick didn't waver.

"_Promise_ you'll listen," he demanded, a sliver of desperation lightening his tone, "_Please_, Little Wing—"

Jason scowled at the nickname, as he so often did, but Dick's expression didn't change and his eyes didn't soften as he looked up at Jason. Despite being the shorter man Dick was no less intimidating.

"Fine," Jason scowled, "_What?_"

"You're not wrong," Dick said bluntly, and Jason snorted and rolled his eyes, looking away as he blinked and soaked in the burn at his chest for something else to feel – he'd been half-hoping, at the back of his mind, that Dick would tell him he _wasn't_ right; Dick wasn't attempting to redeem himself, make himself _feel better_ with a second chance at being the big brother he felt guilty about never having been—

"I _do_ want to _fix_ things—"

"You can't, it's too late," Jason cut in, no part of him prepared to hear the rest of that – not with his conversation with Bruce in the back of his mind and the feeling of every reminder the manor evoked in his gut or the weight of his own, defiant plans on his shoulders, "That kid is _dead_, Dick – there's no _fixing_ things with him—"

"But that's not true, Jason – a part of him is still in you—_listen_," Dick insisted, trying to catch Jason's eye when he looked farther away still, exasperated, "You _still_ want to _help_, to do the right thing, and as much as you claim we're not your family, you _still_ care about us—"

"If you're talking about your precious little Tim," Jason started derisively as he moved to relieve his arm from Dick's grip again—

"_Not just Tim_," Dick let go, but the look he gave Jason made the younger man pause.

"I don't—"

"Damian," Dick all but choked, his eyes at once filling with unshed tears. He barked a laugh, sniffed and straightened his shoulders in an attempt to compose himself and Jason—

—took a step back as though the physical distance would repel the guilt—

"I was there, remember?" Dick said when he could manage it. Jason couldn't find enough air in his lungs for anything but breathing or he might have derailed the conversation with some snide thing or another. "You cut me off and got there first – restrained Tim so he wouldn't—wouldn't _follow_ and get himself hurt, more than he already was, and then you went in, and—tried to, tried to save him—"

"Crap ton of good that did," Jason spoke through a stuttering exhale.

"It wasn't your fault," Dick replied, and Jason had to stop himself from saying anything more, because Dick didn't know—

"I _saw your face_," Dick continued, determined for Jason to understand, "When you came out of the fire with him—i-in your arms, and I—"

—it was only because Jason had been involved at all that Damian—

"—I _knew_ you'd tried everything _you could_, and, and you _wished_ he wasn't—"

—was dead—

"…dead."

Jason breathed, the air somehow burning his insides, backing up as he put a hand to his chest where, miracle of all miracles, he wasn't bleeding after all—

"You looked just like I remembered you…" Dick added. "And I was as grateful as I was—_hurt_. I'm not betting on another miracle that will bring _him_ back, Jason, I'm not that naïve – I _don't know_ why, or how, _you_ came back; if it was luck, or a fluke, if it'll ever happen to anyone ever again, if it's just you, somehow, but—but I already lost you once and I didn't even know it for the longest time, and when I found out, _yes_ – there was _so much_ regret. So many things I wished I'd _said to you_, or _done_ with you, _taught you_—

"And I understand – you're not _my_ second chance, I get that, but, you _are,_ _still,_ my little brother. I need you to—to _acknowledge_ that, or, or take it to heart, or – _do_—_something_—" Dick pled, his words echoing through Jason's head, through the silence that followed—

—

—

"Dickie, I don't—" but Dick breathed in through his nose, shoulders stiffening and his eyes closing tight, and Jason couldn't, somehow, bear to finish that sentence—

"I can't just—" he tried again, but stopped when Dick opened his eyes.

"Jason…you were a good kid," he said, expression softening. "You're a good kid now," almost a laugh in his tone, "A good man. There is _no part of you_, that's _evil_, or _insane_," tentatively, Dick stepped closer, but Jason was slumped against the door, hand to his heart, pounding underneath his fingertips, and his eyes averted from Dick. "I can't—_can't_ condone your thinking half the time, your _methods_," his tone sounded _strained_, hurt, to Jason's ears, admitting that, "But I—I don't want to _change_ you, Jason, I just want you—I don't want to _fight you_, anymore…

"…Jay?"

Jason chanced a glace up, and Dick was standing right in front of him, brows knit and lips twisted into a painful frown.

"Whatever that was, _whoever_ that was – who tried killing Tim, and _Dami_," he added in a whisper, "You're not _him_ anymore. You might not be the same kid we lost as a teenager, Jason, but – you're not the man who came back trying to take over as Batman, either.

"You're my little brother, Jason," a beat. "Tell me I'm not wrong, Little Wing."

"I—" a masochistic part of him wanted to do the same thing he'd been doing all year – push and shove and deny, and, this time, since they were on the topic, do it in the worst possible way that would guarantee Dick never revisit this line of thinking, this avenue of peace, of brotherhood, between the two of them—

—all he had to do was confess—

—_I killed Damian_—

—despite it only being true on a technicality, or, from a different angle, technically untrue—

—regardless – if he was serious at all about keeping his distance from them, having nothing to do with them—he'd say it—

"You're dinner, Master Jason, sir," Alfred's voice preceded him into the foyer proper, the butler's footfalls following heavily in the wake of his words.

A more selfish part of Jason was fifteen years old and the world was bright in his eyes—_little brother_—

A less hypocritical part of him wanted to confess, too, to the truth of the thing, but – honest as it was, it was breaking a promise, and, Jason didn't know when or how it happened, but at some point, he'd turned into a big brother himself, and—

—being a big brother took precedence over being a little brother—

"I can be your little brother, Dick," he said , low enough for Dick's ears alone, although Alfred had stopped several feet away, allowing them another moment's privacy. "I just can't do it _right here_."

A smile graced Dick's lips and he put a hand to Jason's shoulder, squeezing lightly, "I'll take it," he whispered back.

Allowing a smile to tug at his mouth in return, Jason straightened up and turned his expression on Alfred as the butler approached, Jason's packaged dinner in hand. "Thanks, Al."

The butler gave Jason's chest a pointed look, politely suggesting he check his stitches at home. Jason nodded in acknowledgement, "Good night, Al. Dickie," he added, reaching for the doorknob at his back.

"Travel safely, sir."

"I will."

"Good night, Little Wing. We'll talk again, okay?" Dick added, as Jason slipped out the door and into the cool night air. "Don't be a stranger," Dick called after him, but Jason quickened his pace down the porch steps, across the thin blanket of snow without looking back until he was a good twenty paces away. Dick still stood in the doorway.

Jason waved, if somewhat half-heartedly, cowed by the guilt tight in his gut.

* * *

_A/N:  
_As of more recently this story is also on AO3 (where my username is the same), separated into parts. Feel free to comment there if you have a question or comment you'd like a more immediate response to (or a response at all...I'm not good with those otherwise), and thank you for reading and/or reviewing/faving/following! The story still has at least four chapters left (and maybe a sequel/companion piece if I feel motivated enough - which you can help with by letting me know what you think :D), so feel free to hang around for those, they'll get done eventually XP  
Again, thanks a lot for reading!_  
_


	11. bearing bad news

_A/N:_  
As of around...the beginning of April, I've updated all the chapters, checking for spelling mistakes, etc. I also added a big chunk to Chapter 7, so if you've been following the story since before April, you might want to reread that chapter. Nothing changes the plot, but Cass and Tim get some extra "screentime" that's kind of important. XP  
Thanks for sticking around, waiting for this chapter; I hope you like it. Please do let me know what you think! :)

**And many thanks to everyone who has~!** KodiakWolfe13, S.M. Shoka, Mickey's Girl, not paranoid enough, a2zmom, shejams, MistOverMoon, Cookiepianosz _(this is not the same time as Damian's death in canon, since Damian's death is not the same as it was in canon~to answer your question)_, and Nerd-Fghter_ (thanks a lot for letting me know what you think so long after my last update, it was nice to hear from a new reader! I'm glad you like it)_! You are all awesome.

* * *

**~bearing bad news~**

* * *

"Our scars make us know that our past was for real"

― Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

* * *

Jason slowed as he got off the staircase and turned into the hallway.

His was the last door, to the left – a figure slumped against the wall just on the other side of it, and Jason didn't know what to think.

If they were waiting for anyone else in the hall they wouldn't be next to _his_ door, but Jason didn't recognize them from their build alone, and that was troubling.

Any distinguishable features were hidden by slightly too-big clothes. The hood of their jacket was pulled so low Jason couldn't make out their face or hair as he approached; their hands were hidden in the sleeves, arms resting casually on raised knees – jeans dirty but not tattered, sneakers comfortably old…

Race and gender effectively disguised, but Jason would hazard a guess they were perhaps a teenager. A boy, potentially – by the clothes, but, if they were a kid off the street that was hardly an indication.

Jason was only a pace or two from the figure now, posture wary, eyes narrowed at their still form – _too_ still. They didn't even appear to be breathing.

The thought had Jason sucking in a breath of his own, the air hissing through his teeth while his heart quickened a pace – he was suddenly and intently reminded of his mother—

Of Catherine—

Slumped forward against the alley wall behind their apartment building, not moving, barely breathing, her eyes rolling and her thin arms flailing as Jason tried to drag her to her feet—

—and then just tried to drag her, period—

—trying to get her back to their apartment—

—so he could take care of her—

—make her well again—

—if only she hadn't done it in the _alley_—

Jason shook his head, tightening his hold on his over-stocked grocery bag as he snapped himself from the memory.

He was getting better at ignoring them again.

They seemed to have followed him from the manor, filling the already occupied spaces of his mind with their thick, overbearing presence, making it harder to concentrate on anything else—

So he'd started paying attention to them – to how he could get them from filling his thoughts again.

He was getting better at it.

But the quiet, unmoving figure beside his door made him queasy – and then not just because they reminded him of his mother so much.

If it was a kid off the street that came to _his door_, passed out _off a high_ – there was going to be _hell_ to pay.

Tim's situation with the Joker and the case of the new drug had taken up too much of his time the past couple months, he dreaded to think other drug rings were going against the conditions he had _very _rudely and _very _explicitly drilled into their thick skulls years ago. He was blowing up every drug ring within a ten mile radius – _especially _if they were his own – if it turned out this hooded body by his door was high to death.

Jason swallowed; feeling too uneasy as he finally stepped even closer to the figure, raising a boot at the body—

The notion that this was impolite came and went from the back of his mind long enough for him to hesitate, before he nudged the figure with the tip of his shoe, after all – nothing more than a quick poke to the shin—

There was no response, however.

Jason stood uncertainly for a moment, trying to remember if he'd ever found a body like this before – after Catherine—

He didn't think so.

At least – no one this small. No one that looked like a kid. No one whose face he couldn't see, whose situation he wasn't well aware of—

Never anyone _right outside his door_, where he wasn't the Red Hood—

He was just _Jason_ here.

Jason with a seemingly sick or dead kid by his door.

…

…

Jason set the paper bag down and crouched next to the unmoving figure, leaning over to try and get a better look at their face. It was no use, though – head bowed and their over-sized hoodie pulled so low, there was no way to see without pulling back the hood. The openings of their sleeves were scrunched up into their palms, their hands fisted even though their shoulders were slumped and their arms relaxed. They seemed almost comfortably slouched against the wall, and then, as close as he was, squinting at the figure, Jason could hear—

—

—faintly—

—

—_snoring_.

He pulled back, blinking with surprise—

And then _relief_.

Not a dead body, then, at least.

He felt like sighing, and rolling his eyes at how living in the Narrows for so long had twisted his mind into assuming the worst things first—

But then, that was often what kept people alive in this part of Gotham, so.

There was that.

Speaking of which – just because the kid was asleep didn't mean they weren't drugged-up, and even if that wasn't the case, what were they doing at Jason's door anyway? He literally knew _no one _– even remotely matching the kid's imprecise appearance. And he shouldn't be this close to a random stranger who just appeared by his door while he was out…like they were waiting for him.

Mentally berating himself for not showing more caution – and _very carefully_ _not_ allowing himself the excuse of, his mind being _elsewhere_, which, regrettably, it was, but – Jason shifted back on his haunches to create a good distance without getting completely out of reach while he fingered the knife concealed in his boot and sat, settled at the ready to either attack or defend as needed.

It should not have been probable for any of the Red Hood's enemies to discover his identity, much less where he lived, but – this figure beside his door was suggesting otherwise.

As far as he could tell, the kid was genuinely asleep, at least, and not faking it for a surprise attack.

Not well-trained, then, if this was meant as an attack – or an ambush, he considered, glancing back down the hallway—

—there were two more apartments on this floor and Jason knew the occupants were at work and school this time of day – an older, married couple who did volunteer work and a single mother raising a pair of too-quiet twins Jason sometimes had the legitimate pleasure of babysitting when their mother just _would not_ take no for an answer (convinced Jason got out of his apartment too little, had too little friends or close family, if any at all, and she'd be damned if she allowed him to live like that, so really, _she_ was doing _him_ the favour – she insisted)—

—if this kid was only a distraction while Jason's enemies suddenly sprung him from all sides, but—

Another moment of waiting and _listening_—

Jason started at the kid's abrupt snore, and the way their arms twitched in their sleep, and he decided he was being too paranoid about this.

Chalk it up to spending half a day with Bruce.

Shit.

His conversation with the old man weighed as heavily on his chest as the still-healing stitches he'd gotten dangerously close to ripping open the past couple nights – going out with some of his more trusted men to locations Bruce had identified as the most likely areas for his drug to be stashed at.

They were creepy places – an old toy factory supposedly in the process of being revamped for use as something else, and a storage unit on the water stacked with coffins, and marionettes hanging from the ceiling, strings made of barbed wire and all their heads chopped off.

Among others.

…

Jason shook his head.

He needed to get better at putting that conversation behind him, too. Just as soon as this drug was off the street once and for all, it would be easier.

Shifting his weight, Jason raised his free hand carefully, and took a firm hold of his knife.

Better a little precautious – if paranoid – than sorry.

"_Hey_," he said loudly, quick and sharp, but the kid was still out like a light.

Jason huffed in annoyance, and nudged the kid's leg, hard, almost startling himself again when they jerked awake, head and arms shooting up—

Jason tilted forward onto his knees – had the kid by the back of their hoodie and his knife drawn at them in a second, only to pause—

Tim's eyes were wide and bright blue behind the parting in his too-long fringe.

He blinked, said, "Uh…" and lowered his gaze to Jason's kris, raised just enough to be in his field of vision, before he looked up at Jason again.

Jason had more or less frozen in place, and was resisting the urge to slump his shoulders with some sort of relief that it was only Tim – _because_:

_It was only Tim._

All that did was raise a dozen questions in Jason's head, and they were all clambering to the forefront of his mind, desperate to be asked and answered.

But the most obvious response won out—

"Unholy _hell_, Tim," Jason snapped, not sure he wasn't scolding the younger man.

He pulled back his hoodie, revealing more of Tim's messy hair, and lowered the knife, side-eying the way Tim's shoulders relaxed, and the tips of his fingers crawled out of their sleeves to drum at his knees. He was wearing fingerless gloves.

He'd tensed up as he'd woken, but not in the way Jason would have expected a _Bat_ to react. Ordinarily, Jason and his knife _should_ have been eating dirty hallway carpeting.

"Sorry," Tim mumbled, eyes darting around like he was taking in his surroundings – like he'd forgotten where he was? "Did I…" he squinted. "I fell asleep, didn't I?"

Jason scowled, "Evidently."

He sheathed the knife, debated getting to his feet, but Tim had his eyes on his hands and was frowning, and Jason had questions besides.

Mostly ones along the lines of – how did Tim get there and how soon could he leave. Jason groaned, realising he needed to find a new place to live. Alfred's knowledge of his safe house had compromised it earlier in the week, and now his _personal_, _removed-from-vigilante-life apartment_ was an undisclosed location to _this_ little bat.

_What_ the fucking _hell_, even.

Jason stayed on his knees, thus, and snapped his fingers in front of Tim's face. "You in there?"

Tim started, clearly caught in a daze, and met his eyes, "Yeah, it's me, why?" he bumbled, short of breath, and blinked, and looked almost terrified. "I…" he looked at his hands like he didn't recognize them. "Did I do something…?"

"Besides being a weird duck? I guess not," Jason replied.

Tim gave him a look that was much more normal – for _him_ – one eyebrow raised. "Okay," he said slowly, and relaxed a little more again.

He offered no explanation for his presence, and Jason was working up to demanding what the hell he was doing there, he really was, only—

"You look like the dead," he stated instead, none too kindly. There were heavy bags under the kid's eyes. He was too pale, his lips were too white and his eyes were too wide, his hair too long—and goodness gracious, was he _growing a tiny moustache?_ How old was Tim even? Was he old enough to do that? "Which, you know, coming from me should be telling you something."

It was a terrible joke, Jason knew, and he wasn't sure why he made it, but it had the desired effect at least—

An expression _other_ than semi-lifeless and dazed.

Tim's eyes cut into his with a fierce glare not unlike the Bat's, only – it plainly meant something different entirely. It was downright resentful, as opposed to Batman's imposing and intimidating glower.

"Geez…" Jason mumbled, automatically leaning back a little.

Tim scowled away from him and then shifted, bracing his weight on his hands like he meant to push to his feet, but—

Jason liked having this conversation on the floor, frankly.

"What are you doing here?" he asked sharply, halting the younger man's movements.

Tim sighed, and slumped back down.

"Loitering?" he suggested, with a tentative, crooked little smile.

Jason gave him a dry look, "Hardy-har-har."

Tim looked around carefully, "It's not really…a _hallway_ conversation? Can I…?" he inclined his head at the door, but didn't move until Jason had mulled it over enough to nod his permission.

Jason stood, and might have offered a hand for the man, but he was on his feet in almost the same moment, straightening his hoodie and releasing his hands from the sleeves.

Jason had scooped up his groceries and balanced the bag on his hip as he fished out his keys and stuck one in the lock. "Explain how you found me while you're at it," he demanded as he shoved the door open with his shoulder – damn thing got stuck in winter.

"Alfred," was Tim's simple reply at his back while Jason made his way inside, disabling his alarms and crossing the sitting area to the kitchen – separated from the rest of the room by cabinets.

Jason threw up one hand in exasperation, mouthing "_why_" at the ceiling, because how the hell had Alfred found him here? He'd thought he'd been so careful. Careful enough that it being a Bat by his door hadn't even crossed his mind.

"And what, he sent you over?" Jason asked, dropping his groceries on a counter and ducking his head to see through the gap between counter and ceiling cabinets. Tim had shut the door behind him – and slipped in the lock – and was standing in the middle of the room with his hands at his sides, eyes scanning the apartment with a somewhat confused expression.

There wasn't much to see – a small bookcase against one wall, a sofa at the opposite end with a coffee table, cluttered with Jason's notes and his laptop, even though there was a perfectly good desk and an office chair next to the door where he could have been working. He'd gotten tired and annoyed at taking the three steps from the desk to the couch every time he got stuck with the case and opted for a nap, though, so eventually he'd just moved all his stuff over instead.

"No-one knows I'm here," Tim replied, quietly – and, to Jason, it sounded like Tim was having a revelation, like he hadn't known that until he'd said it aloud. The kid was watching the corners of Jason's apartment like he expected something to jump at him – frowning when nothing did, like it was wrong that there wasn't anything.

Jason stopped stuffing coffee and sugar into his cupboards – he'd used the last of what he'd brought from the old place through the night – and rounded the counters to face Tim properly.

"That's intelligent," he said dryly. "I thought you were the smart Robin?" he fished his phone from his back pocket, eyes on it instead of Tim. "How long have you been home – like a month?" he was dialling for Dick, because hell if he was going to be responsible for the kid disappearing a second time – even if he wasn't technically _disappeared_ in the same way. Still. Dick would have an aneurism. He about said as much, "Do you have _any _idea what that'll do to Di—" but Tim appeared in front of him in a rush, one hand wrapping around Jason's wrist and the other covering the phone's screen.

He wasn't pulling at Jason to let go, but his hold was firm and his wide eyes imploring, "This is important."

"And Dick knowing where you are isn't?" Jason retorted rhetorically. He pulled back, but Tim held on tighter. "_Get off_."

"I'm sure he hasn't even noticed—" Tim protested even as Jason forced Tim's hand off the phone, and twisted his wrist so he had to let go of him, "—_don't_—" Tim reached, but Jason held his hand up, effectively putting the device out of short Timmy-Tim's grasp. He wasn't much deterred, however, "_Give it_—" Tim's tone had gone from pleading to angry as he advanced, and Jason raised his free hand at the boy's chest even as he backed up – eventually hitting the cabinet by the sink.

"Forget it," Jason snapped seriously. "I'm calling a pick-you-up; you need to go home—"

An arm's length away, Tim moved back, as though relenting, before he slapped Jason's outstretched arm to the side, roughly, and lunged at Jason with a snarl—

He hit the counter, Jason side-stepping his advance and escaping into the small kitchen space with nothing but a brief tug at his sweater, Tim's grip not firm or fast enough to get a good hold on him.

The younger man stood braced against the counter with one hand, scowling at Jason.

Jason scowled right back.

The pause was brief before Tim came at him again, tackling Jason's mid-section with his shoulder, arms wrapped tight around the older man's waist, and Jason might have caught him under his arms easily, heaved him against the counter to break the hold, if Tim hadn't shoved Jason's half-filled bag of groceries off the counter mid-advance.

Not having expected it, Jason had little time to react before canned foods and a big jug of milk hit him about the legs just as Tim's shoulder caught him firmly in the gut – he staggered, crushed the milk beneath a heavy boot, felt the liquid explode against his jeans, and was knocked off balance tripping on cans and Tim's legs tangling with his own.

Jason hit the floor, arms flailing but the phone still tight in his grip, only to land on a can under his back. He arched up with a cry at once, while his free arm bent to retrieve it – giving Tim enough room to slip his arms from around Jason's waist, the sneaky little shit pushing the can away at the same time, before he came up and shoved Jason down by the shoulders, effectively pinning his own arm under him.

For all that he'd plainly lost some muscle during his abduction, Tim was still strong – had always been stronger than what people seemed to give him credit for. He knew how to use his weight, besides.

Tim sat heavily on Jason's stomach, legs firm against Jason's sides, pressing against his ribs – mildly bruised from a few nights ago. They met eyes only briefly before Tim was reaching for the phone again, palm of his right hand digging into Jason's shoulder as he reached with his left – but Jason had his arm stretched as far as he could go and the phone held tightly—

"Just _give it_!"

"_No way_."

With a growl and a glare Tim was attempting to _crawl_ right over Jason, too abrupt for Jason to try and stop him, but, the moment his knee pressed against Jason's chest, the older man yelped and curled forward, hissing—

Tim gripped at Jason's shoulder so as not to topple off him, while his free hand managed to grab at the phone in Jason's hand when his arm bent involuntarily – the pain in his chest and his ribs flaring—

"_Getoff—_" Jason demanded through grit teeth, but Tim shook his head, defiant—

"Not unless you _give_—"

They struggled; Jason arched trying to shove Tim off, trying to wiggle his arm free from behind his back, but Tim was balanced with one knee on the floor, foot braced against a cupboard, and both his hands clawing at Jason's fingers to release the phone—

—his knee was no longer pressing hard against Jason's chest, the older man's involuntary jerk apparently having alerted Tim to his injury, but it was still a nuisance against Jason's torso and before too long Tim had freed the phone from Jason's twitching fingers—

Tim threw it backward without looking. He shifted his leg off Jason's chest and onto his nearly-freed arm, slamming a hand down on Jason's shoulder to stop him from trying to push Tim off any further while he reached into his pants' pocket with his other hand—

Jason's phone clattered across the tiles—

"_You little—_" Jason hissed, grabbing hold of Tim's hoodie and tugging –

Jason's jaw was starting to ache at the clench of his teeth against the pain all through their scuffle.

Tim was tugging something from his pocket, trying to elbow Jason's arm out of the way and keeping his other hand pressed heavily against Jason's shoulder to keep him down, while his legs tightened against Jason's sides again—

Jason felt too breathless and sore to make a real attempt at throwing Tim off again, but the kid was speaking anyway, quick and urgent, wide eyes intent on Jason's, insistent on his attention—

"Look – _look_!" he said, freeing his phone from his pocket and shoving it in front of Jason's cringing face. "Here, I'm turning it on—" and the blank screen lit up with the phone's introductory display, "Dick can track me if he wants; but in the meantime, I _need_ to talk to you. This is _important_, Jason," Tim insisted, leaning closer. "_Please_. Will you listen?"

Jason swallowed, and breathed through his nose, scowling. Letting go of Tim's hoodie to reach for his phone instead, "_Give_ me that, I'm calling him—"

But Tim released Jason's shoulder to clasp his wrist, grip tight, while he pulled back the phone and held it above his head, "Don't. I will throw this against the wall," he threatened.

"The hell is the matter with you, kid?" Jason snapped. "I swear, Dickie's _out of his mind_ right now, worried about where you are. After your _kidnapping_? Or did you forget about that?"

"It's not important," Tim said plainly, stuffing the phone into his back pocket.

Jason gaped, too surprised not to.

"It _is to him_," he said seriously, wondering if Tim had always been so cavalier. "And—and Cassandra, and, _Alfred_. Seriously?" but Tim's expression didn't change. "Dare I even mention Bruce—" Jason mumbled, avoiding Tim's eye.

"Bruce…" Tim said, apparently having heard, his gaze drifting off even as Jason looked back at him. "Isn't worried about me."

Jason narrowed his eyes at the kid's expression, "That's a little too self-deprecating. Especially for you."

"Like _you_ know anything about me."

"I know _enough_," Jason scathed. "…Perfect little replacement."

Tim's reaction was instant and his blue eyes fierce when he shoved Jason's wrist down against his chest – a ways above Jason's stitches – Tim's other hand grabbing a handful of fabric at Jason's shoulder and shoving there too. It didn't hurt, and Tim didn't say anything, but he didn't much need to with the way he leaned closer, _glaring_.

Jason narrowed his eyes in return, but made no apology. He didn't retaliate either, though.

He thought he understood what Tim's shove had meant – he was unimpressed with Jason's bitter jab. Because Tim was _good_, and if he was at all close to perfect it was because he'd _worked_ his _ass off_ to be that way – and to be acknowledge for it by Bruce, because—

Because, Jason knew, he really _did_ – that Tim didn't come into being Robin – being his replacement – _perfect_ – he'd come into being Robin under Jason's shadow, and _that_ was a double-edged sword.

Because Jason despised how his death was nothing but a cautionary tale – a what-not-to-do guidebook for being Robin—

—one they hadn't even followed, because Tim had been another _kid_ in a suit he didn't belong in not only because it wasn't his to have—

—not to mention Damian—

But Jason also revelled a little – a lot – in the knowledge that Tim had to _struggle_ to get Batman to trust him enough, and accept him enough to keep wearing the suit. Whereas, with Jason, he'd basically been _chosen_ for it, no questions asked.

Tim knew Jason knew this, and Jason knew Tim thought his continued bitterness over Tim having replaced him was petty and childish, and Jason—

Didn't know any more if he disagreed.

Maybe he'd made the jab to test how much he'd mean it if he had to say it now.

After Tim had been going by a new moniker for so long, and the subject of his replacing Jason not having come up in such a long time—

—

—

Jason couldn't tell.

If Tim being his replacement still meant the same thing to him as it did just after his return.

…

…

…

Finally, Jason's eyes slid from Tim's.

The kid's hood had slipped askew on his head throughout their tussle, revealing Tim's too-long hair covering his ears, reaching into his neck—

They stayed like that for a few more, silent minutes, the tension slowly seeping out of Tim's shoulders, his grip on Jason's wrist and his sweater relaxing. He could still feel Tim's eyes on him, though Jason kept his own firmly on Tim's neck.

Tim retreated, quietly clearing his throat and pulling his hands to his chest. He sat awkwardly, looking off to the side, worrying his lower lip like he didn't know what to do next.

Jason watched his face, examining his expression when he broke the silence, asking, "Did you really…" his voice came out cracked, so he licked his lips, swallowed thickly, "Did you really do it?"

"Do what?" Tim asked, genuinely confused. His fingers were clutching at the ends of his sleeves again.

Jason's gaze shifted away and back. "Killed the Joker—"

Tim giggled – high-pitched and abrupt – and slapped his palms flat across his mouth at almost the same moment, bending forward with a whimper and bowing his head towards Jason's chest.

Jason had stiffened at the laugh, and wanted to shift his shoulders, shift his weight – get off the floor, but—

"_Bruce_—" Tim had breathed as he hid his face. "…_hated_ me," he sounded broken. "'m a murderer—"

"_No_," Jason said at once, and lifted his arm off his chest – all he could see when he craned his neck was the top of Tim's hoodie, so he shifted it off Tim's head and kept his hand against the kid's hairline, trying to coax him into looking back up. "Screw Bruce and his self-righteous moral code," he continued, heatedly. "It's a fine line, but that's _not_ murder. It's _justice_. He has no right to hate you."

The hell kind of game was Bruce playing anyway? Did he really want the last thing Tim remembered to be hatred from him?

Tim's shoulders twitched and his head came up a little, but not enough for Jason to get a proper look at his face.

Jason stopped trying to see and let his head rest against the tiles, his eyes on the ceiling instead.

"…I don't know what he did to you," he said, as gently as he could. "I don't _want_ to, either – sorry," he felt the need to add, "—but… I know what he did to _me_, and—" he had to swallow for the dryness of his throat, but he ploughed on more firmly, "and he _deserves_ nothing less than what he got.

"_Forget_ what Bruce says.

"…

"…You did good, kid…"

Jason was startled to discover he meant it.

Having the green-haired bastard trussed up to the nines, barrel to the head and explosives in the corner just to emphasize his _point_, threatening the Bat with ultimatums – the final act to his brilliant production – and Jason hadn't been able to kill the man. And not only because Bruce had forced the gun from his hand, either.

When Tim had been caught and Jason had found him, he'd purposely foregone rescuing the kid himself – for _fucking fear_ of killing the bastard pasty-faced psychopath.

He'd discovered, since his conversation with Bruce little more than a week ago, that—

He could never have done it, no matter how much he wanted, or tried – or had told Dick that, if anyone, it was _him_ who deserved to. Him or Bruce.

But neither of them could ever have.

Killing the Joker had been the starting point to some or another cataclysm in both their lives, if different ones, that neither of them had been willing – if purposely or subconsciously – to set in motion—

For Bruce, crossing that line meant never coming back. He'd be a killer. There'd be no more justification for _not_ killing. There'd be no more mercy; there'd be no more faith in people, or trust in change, or turning back—

If Batman killed the Joker, he could kill them all.

He _would_ kill them all.

For Jason, never crossing the line himself had been clinging to a hope that Batman eventually would. A perpetual invitation for his father to avenge his death and make it right. A party he always knew Bruce would never attend, but every time the opportunity arose Jason had his breath held with hope, like – maybe _this time_. Eventually, he'd done away with that hope, and finally _accepted_ that Batman wouldn't kill. Couldn't. And his resolve, difficult to have, because Jason could finally acknowledge that it was, had become admirable.

Yet still Jason never pursued the Joker.

Because now, crossing that line himself seemed like the last irredeemable act he could commit in the eyes of his once father.

The hope had changed into a belief that maybe, just maybe Bruce could still forgive him for everything else – every dead drug dealer, or rapist, or terrorist, or mob boss, or whatever other kind of shitty earth-scum Jason relocated to a grave. But the Joker.

He could never forgive Jason for killing the Joker.

For having his _revenge_.

…

…

Maybe there was a little part of Robin in that hope – that as long as he wasn't killing for his own sake, Batman would approve. The mission was still everyone else. And Jason wouldn't be such a disappointment to the man.

Not that he wished for Bruce to be disappointed in Tim, but then, Jason couldn't really believe he was – Tim had never come across to him as the kind of person to seek the life of someone to exact revenge, so it stood to reason that Tim killing the Joker hadn't been for himself.

At least, Jason thought—

Wanted to believe, really, because—

Because if Bruce _was_ disappointed in Tim for killing the Joker—

He was disappointed in Jason for killing at all, too – no matter what he'd said the other day—

Tim certainly seemed to be attached to that line of thinking.

He'd lifted his head enough for Jason to see his eyes, and Jason pulled his hand back from Tim's head. He hadn't been crying, even though his voice sounded hoarse and tired as though he had. "But I…" his gaze snapped to a corner over Jason's head before slowly drifting back. "I broke the only rule—"

"He has too many rules than he knows what to do with," Jason cut in even as Tim spoke over him—

"—that matters—"

"Why'd you do it?" Jason asked, because now that he'd considered it, he needed to know—

"I…" Tim hesitated, rubbing his fingers over the backs of his hands, up his arms into his sleeves as he seemed to think of how to explain. "It was…they were fighting," he wasn't looking at Jason, but stared at a cupboard instead, like the answer was a scene projected there. "And Joker had Bruce pinned, and he was…cutting at his—" Tim looked at his now-crossed arms and Jason remembered the thin scars up Bruce's arms from the backs of his hands.

Stretches of nearly-healed scabs and thin white lines that would fade with time.

Jason hadn't asked about them.

Now he was glad he hadn't.

"And he was going to…_he was going to kill him_," Tim said, _firmly_, insistently, like he'd said it before and needed to be understood, and believed. "I wanted to _help_ – I just—no one else was close, or able, and I – _all I had_ was the—trick gun—" Tim's hands had slipped from his sleeves, hung in the air like they were holding something and Tim was looking at it – looking at the gun in his head – debating. "So I used it. I didn't think," he said it like it excused his behaviour, but then, "I wasn't thinking," like it was a confession of his incompetence and enough reason to blame him—

He stuck his fingers in his hair, frustrated and ashamed, his cheeks red and his expression pitiful—

Still he didn't cry though, and Jason didn't know why he was expecting him to.

Maybe because, if it were Jason, he would have already—

"I just—just didn't want Bruce to be dead—" Tim whispered, like he was offering part of his soul.  
Jason thought he could almost _feel_ Tim's self-disappointment, and frustration, and _loathing_, coming off him in waves—

—Jason had to wonder if it was because he'd felt similarly before—

—he didn't know—

"Hey—_Tim_," he barked, forcing Tim's eyes to him while he grabbed at the younger man's elbow. "He can't hate you for that," Jason insisted. "You saved his life."

"I killed," Tim replied bluntly, like that was _it_ and there was absolutely no further justification or excuse. His fingers went slack in his hair and his shoulders slumped.

Jason could feel his frustration mounting at Tim's defeated look – he wasn't sure why it was becoming so important to him that Tim agree with him—

—didn't want to give it any thought just now either—

Jason rolled his eyes, "So join the club," he sniped. Maybe he'd just spent too much time being a big brother to Damian that it was becoming a natural response—

Tim gave him a deadpan look, hands slipping down to rest lightly on Jason's chest. But his wide blue eyes seemed more like Jason was used to.

"Asking me to be your Robin again," Tim said – quipped, really. It wasn't even a question.

Jason smirked at that, even as he tried hard to suppress a blush he could feel in his neck – asking Tim to be his Robin when he'd been vying for the position of new-and-improved Batman during Bruce's stint through Time, had, in hindsight, been one of his more ridiculous and impulsive actions.

The only reason Jason could think he'd made the suggestion in the first place was because…wherever Bruce had been – dead and looking down on them – he'd feel Jason take something else that had been his at one point. He'd feel loss – not the same as Jason had, but…

…

…it had been a petty, petulant thing, and Jason had no desire for it anymore.

"You already have a Batman," Jason said, not adding that Tim wasn't Robin anymore. He'd come into his own since then. "_And_," Jason added pointedly, poking at Tim's shoulder. "He doesn't hate you."

Tim looked like he might make another protest, but Jason cut him off—

"Joker was dying anyway, wasn't he," he said, and watched Tim blink. "You _know that_, right?"

Tim squinted.

"His autopsy revealed early signs of cancer. And…a _ton _of toxins," he waved his hand. Bruce hadn't been specific when he'd shared the information and Jason hadn't wanted to ask. He'd figured if he needed to at any point in future, he'd just hack the Cave. Or the GCPD. Or Arkham. Or wherever. Or ask Dick. "He was full of crap.

"…Taking you was his last hurrah against the Bat…"

Tim was staring at the corner again.

"He _really_ didn't tell you that?"

Tim shook his head slightly, "No, I…" Jason could almost see the little gears behind his eyes turning to work it out, but…sometimes there just wasn't any way to know what Bruce was thinking and why he didn't share half the information he had at any given time. "I was…his…last…hurrah?" Tim looked lost, and Jason started a bit when he giggled – high-pitched and loud—

He made no move to smother the sound – it shook his shoulders and his hands against Jason's chest—

Jason flicked his forefinger against Tim's forehead, _hard_. "Hey!"

It was Tim's turn to jump, cutting off mid-giggle. Jason was grateful it had worked. "Are you going to get off me or am I going to throw you off?" he asked, almost casually, but he could feel his arm had gone to sleep half-buried under his back and Tim's leg.

Tim looked around like he was only just now realising he'd been sitting on Jason's stomach for the entirety of their conversation. "Oh."

Promptly he shifted off, but didn't stand up; choosing instead to stay seated on his knees to Jason's left.

The older man pushed himself up by his free hand, and shifted back to sit more comfortably. Canned food, a sealed package of sausages and his broken bottle of milk littered the two feet of space between cupboards.

Jason sighed, and carefully shook the stiffness from his arm. "Argh," he whined. "All the pins and needles," he set his arm on his thigh, resigned to waiting out the uncomfortable, tingling sensation.

He was equally uncomfortably aware of Tim's eyes on him, though by the blank look Tim suddenly startled out of when Jason fixed him with a wary gaze, Jason guessed the younger man hadn't even realised he'd been staring.

"Oh!" he started, "I hurt you!" and Tim had jumped forward without warning, catching the hem of Jason's sweater and the shirt he had on underneath, tugging up—"Are you o—"

"Whoa, there—" Jason plucked Tim's hands from his clothes and shoved him back, none too gently, "Buy a guy dinner before you whip out the hands, yeah?"

Tim blushed, and plopped back down on his knees with his hands hovering awkwardly, "What—no—I wasn't—"

Jason chuckled, righting his clothes while Tim's mouth worked like a fish out of water's—

"You're an ass," Tim scowled at him then, hands clenching into fists. Jason shook his head, still amused, while he reached one hand up under his shirt to feel at the bandages. "You're basically my brother," Tim added with a huff.

Jason snorted, "Yeah, well," he shrugged. "Same rules apply." He checked his fingers, but they'd come away clean. "I'm not bleeding," he shifted his shoulders, some, stretched his arm as the last of the heaviness faded from it. "It feels alright," he looked up at Tim seriously. "Which is good – _for you_."

Tim snorted, but his eyes weren't on Jason's. He'd crossed his arms and pouted at what Jason had said, but he was frowning now at Jason's grey sweater.

"What?" Jason snapped.

"You have…" Tim started, but bit his lip and said nothing else.

Jason rolled his eyes, annoyed, "Spit it out."

"…So many scars," Tim said quietly, and it sounded like a question.

Jason's shoulders relaxed, "Oh," he said, and glanced at Tim's neck. "Comes with the job," he dismissed with a one-shouldered shrug, but Tim was still looking at Jason like he could see through his shirt.

Hesitation made him pause, briefly, before Jason stole a page from Tim's new book and reached into the boy's personal space to tug his hoodie to the side and finger the scar at Tim's neck—

The action pulled Tim from his thoughts as he recoiled, slapping a hand to his neck while Jason's fingers hung in the air.

"Sorry…" Jason mumbled, and pulled his hand back. "About that, I mean," he added, pointing.

Tim was looking at the floor, "It wasn't you. It was Clayface."

Tim wasn't wrong, of course, but, "I put him up to it. Targeting you, in particular. I never meant for him to actually hurt you though."

"I don't think he'd been planning to," Tim shrugged. "It was an accident."

"Still. I explicitly told him not to—"

"Because you wanted to do the hurting yourself," Tim said plainly, and Jason blanched.

"That's not—"

"Untrue?" Tim interrupted again, and when he looked up at Jason his blue eyes were narrowed and his lips a thin line. "Because you left me with a few scars of my own when you tried to kill me."

"Tim. If I wanted you dead. You'd be dead."

Tim scowled at something past Jason's head, but then he'd looked back and was unzipping his hoodie, "Of all the scars you could apologize for – you pick that one?" he lifted his t-shirt and Jason flinched—

—the kid's torso was covered in a plethora of scars with hardly any indication as to where one began and another ended—

—some were shaped like vines criss-crossing over linear lines lying parallel and perpendicular to one another – a checkered design – disappearing into clusters of tiny craters that marched a circular pattern across his ribs, and—

—Jason felt sick—

—it wasn't any of these Tim pointed to though—

"Not _this_?" Tim demanded, pressing his gloveless fingertips against a scar Jason could see the beginning and end of, clearly—

He'd put it there.

He swallowed thickly, remembering the blood on the batarang, the tips of his fingers after he'd stabbed Tim – Tim in the Batman suit – with the damn thing—

"I…" he looked away. "I didn't want you dead…" he whispered, like a promise, or a prayer – or a _plea_…

…

He'd never wanted Tim _dead_.

But then, when he'd emerged in his own twisted version of Batman intending to take the mantel for himself by force as seemed necessary—

He hadn't been himself, _at all_.

The longer the battle had dragged on, the less of himself he'd become.

Afterward, he thought—

He'd thought the Pit Madness had finally gotten the better of him. He'd given in and indulged in a childhood dream the Madness swallowed whole, perverting it and taking more of him than he'd had to give—

Afterward, he could hardly remember half of what he'd done or why.

He'd slunk away, swearing he'd never be that person again.

He'd kept that promise. So far.

"Is that your version of an apology?" Tim sniped, righting his shirt and crossing his arms again.

"Probably not," Jason spoke at the floor, and his fingers twitched and his cheeks burned with shame. "If I had to do it over…I might end up doing the same thing. I thought I had no other options, no other way to…deal with you, or the Pit Madness, or…being the Batman I thought…Bruce ought to have been…" it was only thereafter, coming back to himself all alone as though he was waking from the coffin a second time, screaming for Bruce and seeing a vicious red-eyed Batman behind his eyes – terrified at the realisation that it was _him_ – that Jason had come to accept Batman wasn't meant to be a killer, and Bruce's firm resolve was admirable even as it hurt his soul.

"And now?" Tim asked, watching him thoughtfully – almost the same way he'd watched Jason when he'd opened the manor door for him the first time and offered him Alfred's freshly squeezed whatever-it-was.

"What?" Jason blinked, not sure he was following the conversation anymore.

"Do you still think Batman should be a killer? Are you going to don your terrifying Batsuit and terrorise us again?"

Jason shook his head, "No," and spoke his thoughts aloud for the first time – to someone other than Bruce—"Batman shouldn't kill. That's what The Red Hood is for."

"He doesn't _have_ to be…" Tim said.

Jason chuckled, "Asking me to be _your_ Robin?" he retorted, but the smile dropped from his face with Tim's flinch—

"Of course not," Tim shook his head. "I don't want to be Batman. Any more than I wanted to be Robin to begin with."

"Oh, please," Jason scoffed. "'The Adventures of Timmy the Night-time Parkour-enthusiast with a Camera' suggests a different story."

Not to mention Tim's hard work at being accepted into the "Family," Jason didn't add.

"It was hardly parkour," Tim replied, but he was almost smiling. "You know about that…?"

Jason shrugged. "Not at the time. It came with the folder I got on you – when I eventually got past the pictures and actually read the thing," he admitted before he could stop himself, and then hastened to add, "You weren't as stealthy as you thought you were."

"I was like ten," Tim waved a hand dismissively. "No one is as stealthy as they think they are at ten. Except Dick."

"And Damian."

Tim winced, "Uh…yeah—"

"Oh. Sorry – taboo little bird name. I forget," Jason cringed and looked away; hoping Tim would drop the topic. Since returning from the manor, his littlest brother had been on his mind about as much as his drug case was, if not more—

"It's okay…" Tim mumbled.

An awkward silence persisted, neither of them looking at the other. Jason had wanted to fish about Tim becoming Robin, from _Tim_ himself, because he wasn't sure he believed what Bruce had told him about it, and Talia's details had included very little about _why_ Tim was Robin, only emphasising that he was – but it appeared the opportunity had passed him by.

"You…'got' a folder on me?" Tim finally broke the silence, raising his eyebrows at Jason. "You didn't investigate yourself?"

Jason waved a hand at him, "Not your beeswax, kid. Find another candle to light up." He wasn't about to reveal to the young detective how he'd spent the years after his resurrection in Talia's care, and that she'd been the one who kept him up to date with Batman and the new Robin he was sporting. He was about to bring the conversation back around to Tim's origins, since it was vaguely related to the folder they were talking about again, but Tim spoke before he could—

"Does it require, like, a lunch first? Or something?"

Jason blinked, and a bubble of confused laughter stuck in his throat, "What?"

"Well, if dinner gets your shirt off," Tim explained, completely deadpan, "I'm trying to gauge what meal equates to 'revealing personal information'—"

Jason laughed outright at that, "I really hope you're kidding."

Tim's smile was small, but it looked oddly triumphant, "I think," he said.

"Good. Cause I'm not that easy by a long shot."

Tim only smiled – at him, briefly, and then he ducked his head.

It was quiet again, and Jason was on the verge of fidgeting when he remembered, "Didn't you come over here and wrestle me to the ground because of something '_important_, Jason'?"

Tim winced like he'd been struck – making Jason frown – and then he was pulling the sleeves of his hoodie over his uncovered fingers and gripping the fabric tight, "They look like crescent moons," he said, quietly, eyes averted.

Jason frowned deeper, but Tim clarified before he could ask—

"Your scars."

Jason's shoulders hunched automatically, one hand running over the fabric of his sweater where, underneath the clothes, etched into his skin—

He felt incredibly uncomfortable, almost nauseous, but then—

Tim's scars—

Tim was avoiding the reason he'd come, but _why_, when he'd come all the way here, loitered by Jason's door, and made such a fuss over not calling Dick because he so desperately needed to tell Jason something, Jason couldn't fathom—

Against his better judgement then, Jason decided to humour the kid—

"You should see my legs," he replied, almost making light, "They're twice as bad. Short pants don't go far in the line of defence, as you might imagine."

—or make him uncomfortable enough that spilling the beans on why he was here seemed a better option than listening to Jason wax poetic about his death—

"They're from—?" Tim gaped.

"Keepsake from the clown," Jason confirmed.

—because that's where he thought he was going.

"If I had any advice for my twelve-year old self," he continued – because the sting of having died seemed less when he could make bad jokes about it, "Invest in some pants – the heavy-duty armoured kind," and even less still when his bad jokes about dying made other people cringe, because they didn't know how to deal with it, "You know, _besides_ 'don't jack the Bat's wheels, it's not worth it in the long run' – which turned out to be pretty short."

There was the cringe now—

And Jason smirked—

But Tim's hands were tight fists in his sleeves, and his voice was rough when he spoke, glaring at Jason from beneath his too-long bangs, "Does the past mean _so little _to you, you'd wish it all away if you could?"

"_Maybe_," Jason scathed. "Maybe I'm just curious about what I'd look like without all the curving little mementos—"

"You're a damn _ass_," Tim snapped. "And an idiot."

Jason was caught between chuckling or scowling at the nerve of the kid.

"Excuse you, I'm a genius," he said wryly.

"Do you really _hate_ us that much?" Tim asked, ignoring his quip. "Even now…? Even with Bruce—? And telling Dick you'd be his little brother, and finding me, or trying to save Damian—was all that a _lie_?!" Tim looked at him, wide-eyed and almost pleading—

"No!" Jason replied, defiant, before he could think on it, only to back-track, "I-I don't know – it's complicated—"

Tim laughed, derisive, and rolled his eyes, "You have _no idea_ how lucky you are—"

"'_Lucky'_?" Jason repeated, "Do these look like good-luck charms to you?" he gestured the half-moon scars across his abdomen, shirt and sweater pulled back with one hand—

Tim hardly looked at them—

"Bruce would have given _anything_ to take that back!" Tim argued, "To prevent that from happening – he loved you _so much_—"

Reeling in his first response to punch the younger man, Jason sucked in a breath through his teeth, and glared instead, "_Stop _talking," he warned.

"You were his _first_ son—" Tim ignored him, "The _only one_, if not for Damian—"

"I'm warning you, kid—"

"You told Dick nothing between you and Bruce had changed after you spoke—"

"You had _better_ put a cork in it, Timothy—" Jason grit, shoulders tense with the desire to spring forward and grab Tim by the front of his hoodie—

"But that _can't_ be true," Tim insisted, still speaking like he hadn't heard Jason, "You _have_ to _know_ how _much_ Bruce cared about you – how _badly_ he wanted you to be part of the family—"

"That's enough," Jason finally snapped, before he did lunge forward to grab Tim by his clothing, "Shut the hell up!"

But Tim only shook his head, expression defiant, as he allowed Jason to tug and shove at him—

"That's why you told Dick you'd try – you'd be his little brother—"

"_No_!" Jason cut in, "That had nothing to do with Bruce – or even Dick—" he stopped, before he said something stupid, and leaned back, away from Tim, feeling like he'd gotten caught with his hand in Alfred's cookie jar.

"Then why?" Tim asked, voice a whisper, fingers reaching up to grasp at Jason's wrist—but Jason—

_"Just promise me at least this much—Jason—" _Damian's voice came to mind—

_"When Grayson inevitably tries to be _nice_ to you – because you _know_ he _will_—_

_"Don't reject him out of hand. He needs—_

_"—he needs his…his…little brother—s."_

Jason shoved Tim back, before the younger man could clasp his wrists, and scooted back across the tiles to where he'd been sitting before—

Knees up, eyes on his milk-stained boots, pants—

Jason took a deep, stuttering breath, "It's none of your damn business—" he chanced a glance up at Tim, who sat, leaning against the cabinet door, watching Jason with a pensive expression.

Jason swallowed, and scowled away.

"I bet it was Talia."

Jason recoiled, having no idea what Tim was referring to within the context of their conversation. He looked up, unprepared to hide his startled expression, "_What_?"

"That gave you the folder."

Tim wasn't looking at him, was instead looking idly over the contents of Jason's grocery bag strewn across the floor. Jason narrowed his eyes, considering Tim's sudden calm in the wake of their spat—

But apparently, they were back to that.

At length, he asked, "What makes you think that?"

"You said 'Pit Madness' which implies Lazarus Pit," Tim explained, like it was obvious. "Which suggests Ra's – unlikely – or, more likely, Talia. I can only assume she used it to heal you in some way, since I know she didn't resurrect you with it," Tim didn't elaborate on that, but Jason filed it away for some other occasion when he was feeling curious, "But, by your scars…" he glanced at Jason, who stiffened for a moment, "It wasn't that—"

"No, they'd already decided to stick by the time I took a dip," Jason said, forcing himself to relax. He shifted, crossing his legs to sit more comfortably. Tim eyed him sideways, but carried on when he saw Jason wasn't about to explain what the Pit had been for—

Jason had told Bruce the entirety of his sorry tale – or, what he could remember for certain, anyway – but the man had apparently not shared after Jason had left the manor. At least – not with Tim.

"So I suppose you must have stayed with her. For a time, at least," Tim continued. "And who else but League of Assassin operatives could have seen a ten year old kid trailing after Batman and Robin?"

"Uh – Batman and Robin?" Jason mock suggested, and Tim rolled his eyes.

"Gotham is always crawling with spies for the League – it wouldn't have been hard for them to discover who I was and keep tabs on the new Robin without me knowing," there was no shame for him in admitting that, Jason realised, and wondered if he would have been appalled to know someone was tailing him without his knowledge—

But then – there _had_ been someone.

There had been Tim.

Jason…Jason had been Tim's Robin.

"And they would have given Talia the information for the file," Tim concluded, finally looking at Jason – a shadow of smugness in his eyes, at the corner of his mouth – which, seemed askew with it there. "Which she then gave to you."

"Perfect little replacement," Jason grumbled under his breath.

But Tim had heard.

He smiled, looking wistful, "I wonder…when had that turned into a term of endearment, instead of an insult…"

It wasn't a question, so Jason scowled, leaning dangerously forward—

"It's _not_," he insisted.

Tim chuckled, rolling his head back and around to look at Jason again, "Like Dick calling you 'Little Wing.' Couldn't call you Robin, could he? You couldn't either with me—"

"Who's being an ass now, kid?" Jason snapped, and clenched his fists on his jeans instead of Tim's hoodie. "Where do you get off?"

"Am I still your replacement, Jason…?" Tim asked, and it sounded forlorn. Jason swallowed, his throat feeling thick. "Is that all I am to you?"

Jason scowled, because he didn't _know_ how to answer that.

After speaking with Bruce—

Though they hadn't gone into the finer details of Tim's appointment, Bruce _had_ told him a little about Tim having been Robin—

How grateful he was Jason had found him—

How proud he was of Tim—

How much Tim had wanted to be like him—

Jason ground his teeth, and looked away.

"Then why did you find me…when Joker—?" Tim cut off with a hitch in his voice, and Jason clenched his jeans tighter, nipped at his bottom lip—

"You're a Robin—" he growled, and looked at Tim fiercely, "I wasn't about to let him kill another one of us—"

—Tim's wide blue eyes were shiny with tears—

"I don't hate you, Tim," Jason added on a whim, voice shaky at the admittance. "I don't want you dead—"

Tim sobbed – a strangled sound in the back of his throat and a gasp of air. He ducked his head, covering his face with his hands—

Jason stared, feeling his throat clench and his chest burn, and the fingers on his jeans loosen—

"Tim—"

"Joker—" Tim hiccupped into his hands, almost inaudible, "Didn't want me dead—either—"

"I don't want to know!" Jason almost snapped, sounding desperate to his own ears.

He scooted closer; hands hovering above Tim's shaking shoulders—

The kid was mumbling, but, thankfully, not loud or coherent enough for Jason to make out—

"Please, don't tell me," Jason whispered, "Please, I can't—"

He could hardly deal with his own lingering obsession—

—tracing the half-moon marks all across his skin—

—the tears where the teeth of the crowbar had caught—

—and _pulled_—

"But I don't know—" Tim spoke, louder, through hitching breath and high-pitched sobs, and glove-covered hands _pressed_ against his face—"—know what 'm doing—Di—can't—help me, I—"

"I—I can't help you either, Timmy," Jason breathed, leaning into Tim's space, finally putting one hand against the boy's trembling shoulder—

He went still at once, and Jason paused, too—

"But you," Tim hiccupped, and at the edge of it was a breathy laugh. He let go of his face, raising his head to lock eyes with Jason—

His face was a mess – scarlet, tear-stained cheeks, nose runny and blue eyes framed red, his brows furrowed—

"You—you're the only one—who knows—"

Jason shook his head slightly, at a loss—"No—no—"—knowing only that he _didn't want to know_ about what the Joker had done to Tim—

—he was scared of it—

—the knowledge – the thought – the reminder—

—he could barely keep his own nightmares at bay; he didn't want to share Tim's as well—

Tim's eyes were _filled_ with tears – sticking to his lashes when he blinked—he _gripped_ Jason's wrists, and through the sobbing his thin, too-pale lips morphed into a twisted grin—

He giggled, and Jason held the boy's shoulder tighter, his free hand clenching into a fist—

—Tim's grip on his wrists became tighter in turn—

"You have _got_ to stop doing that—" Jason implored—because, Tim's giggling sounded _so_ unlike Tim, and Jason didn't want to hear it – didn't want to think about what it _did_ sound like—

Tim dropped his head briefly, fingers twitching against Jason's pulse, and when he looked back up the grin was replaced with a snarl—

"You think I don't _know_ that?" Tim spat, and tugged at Jason's arms—"You think I don't _know_ what I sound like? _Who_ I sound like?!"

"_Easy_—" Jason tried, leaning back, Tim shoving his arm like he meant to hit Jason with it—

Tim only moved closer into Jason's space – a hiccup still in his throat, but the tears no longer streaming—"H-How many scars did he leave on you, huh?"

"What—"

Tim released Jason's wrists, while Jason grasped onto his hoodie, trying to pull Tim away, but the younger man only kept coming closer on his knees, grabbing hold of Jason's sweater – pulling closer, pulling up—

Jason tipped back under Tim's weight, his legs shifting out from under him, torso twisting to press his back against the cabinet—

"Tim—"

"Because your scars are on the _outside_ – and _boo-hoo_ someone else was his Robin after you died," Tim shoved against his shoulders, and Jason slid further down the cabinet, before he dug the heels of his boots into the fissures between tiles and tried to push himself back up – but Tim leaned over him, looking down with an angry sneer, "—but that was your _biggest_ problem after what Joker did to you—"

"That's not true—" Jason growled, letting go of Tim's hoodie, where he had him by the shoulders, and shoved his hands in, between Tim's arms to grasp his front instead – intent on pushing the kid back and off him—"_Or fair_—"

Tim only held onto him tighter, though, leaning in closer to Jason's face – eyes narrowed and frightening, "Whatever he did to your head, _you didn't have to deal with it_—"

"_Because I was dead_!" Jason snapped viciously, shaking Tim by the lapels – anger finally making itself known, rippling under his skin—

"Well, I _wish_ I was dead!" Tim shouted back into his face, and Jason hesitated – at the sound of his voice cracking, and shaking with unreleased laughter, as much as the admittance itself—

Jason shook his head, stunned—

—the quick burst of anger evaporated, leaving him feeling only cold and confused—

"_Me_ – I have it _on my skin_, I have it _in my head_," Tim continued through clenched teeth, like he hadn't seen Jason's reaction, "_I have it on my hands_—" Tim's fingers found Jason's neck—

Jason pressed further back into the cabinet, but he was almost all the way onto his back on the floor by now, and Tim shuffled ever closer – Jason flinching as the younger man pressed his leg against his abdomen to pin him again—

"—in my _throat_, in my _lungs_—"

"_Tim_—" Jason tried, trading Tim's hoodie for the hand by his throat – Jason's fingers closing around Tim's wrist—digging a space between the wool of Tim's sweaty glove and the skin of Jason's neck—

Tim's fingers squeezed, _pressed_ into his neck, nails biting—

Jason pulled Tim's hand back by the wrist even as his mouth opened automatically—trying to gulp in air—

"—I can't _breathe_—" Tim said, voice low, breath against Jason's cheek, and all his weight on Jason's neck, stomach—the knuckles of Jason's own fingers cutting into his neck where he'd wedged them between his skin and Tim's still-_pressing_ palm—

How the hell had this happened?

"—with the way it _suffocates me_—"

Jason clutched Tim's hand, pulling hard to get him away from his throat—

Tim was close, his lips moving against Jason's ear—"I _killed you_, didn't I?" Tim whispered, not at all sounding like Tim—

"_Getoff_!" Jason snarled, pulling Tim's hand from his throat—nails scratching as they went—with Jason's one hand clutching Tim's and the other yanking him back by the bend of his elbow.

Jason was pushing off the cabinet – off the floor – in the same movement, Tim having gone almost limp – falling on his back without protest, allowing Jason to pin him down easily—

_Giggling_ all the while.

Jason, gasping in air as he leaned over Tim, clutching the younger man by the wrists – felt the faded anger in his gut start to simmer again—

"What the _hell_, Tim?!" Jason demanded, but Tim laughed – choked, and sobbed, and then there were tears again—

He looked away, turned his head like he meant to hide it in his shoulder, and cried—

Jason breathed – quick and frustrated, trying to calm down.

Obviously, something wasn't right here.

And where the hell was Dick? He must have realised Tim was gone by now.

"I'm taking you home," Jason decided, and meant to act on that declaration before he could change his mind or Tim tried to do some other stupid thing—

But then the boy's lips moved, his voice too quiet for Jason to hear—

"What?" he snapped, impatient.

"Bruce…" Tim breathed, voice hoarse like he'd been the one nearly strangled. "B-Bruce—'s—" Tim looked at him like he couldn't look away, blinking tears from his eyes, "D—dead," he choked out on the back of a sob and the start of a giggle.


	12. interlude: bearing bad news

_A/N:  
_

Thanks to everyone reading and reviewing last chapter, especially new readers! :* So good to hear from you all :D Sorry for the wait~ Only two/three chapters left. I'll try to finish them as soon as possible :D (at least I'm done with work for the year, so I have a lot of free time now) Thanks for reading!

* * *

**~bearing bad news~**

* * *

"The world seemed to shimmer a little at the edges."

― Neil Gaiman, Coraline

* * *

When awareness came slowly sinking back in, it was through the solidity of the cabinet at his back – the sharp handle digging into the muscle, the scars, there—

Jason pressed back, hard, desperate to feel grounded against something, even as the absurd possibility that he might slip right through it – fall into some unknown abyss – made him anxious—

Then he heard Dick.

It was jarring, for he couldn't remember, for a moment, when the man had gotten there—

And then, he realised the memory eluded him, _because, _Dick _had never _gotten there—

Opening his eyes felt like something he had to force his body into, and with it came an involuntary tremor, rocking his limbs, like he'd snapped out of sleep-paralysis – only, he hadn't gone to sleep—

Vaguely, he remembered, the shaking in his fingers, as he'd backed off of Tim – on his back, limbs jerking, while he mumbled, and giggled incomprehensively – and scooted as far away as he could get—

On his haunches, fingers pressing into his thighs while his breaths came ragged and irregular and Tim's words danced through the quickly gathering fog in his head—_B—Bruce's'd—dead—_

_—Bruce's'd—_

_—dead—_

_—B—_

_—_

_—_

_—Bruce—_

_—'s—d—_

_—_

_—_

_—dead—_

_—_

_—_

_—dead—_

_—_

_—Bruce—is—dead—_

—in a brief moment of clarity, he could hardly be sure had been real, he'd looked over to Tim – gaze having been on—the floor—the walls—the cupboards – and realised the words weren't in his head, because they were still spilling from the kid's mouth—

"Bruce is—

"—dead—

"Bruce—

"—Bruce is dead—

"Bruce is dead—d—

"—dead—

"Bruce is _dead_—"

—

Before—

—

"A—ha-a—"

Laughter.

"Ah-HA—_ha-HA—A—!_"

Jason had practically _fallen_ back, hitting cabinets, drawing up his knees – arms, hands – as he folded into himself, shutting his eyes tight while he shook and struggled to breathe—

Tim laughing in his ears until he couldn't hear him anymore.

"Haa-ha-ha—haha—HA—HEHE—HAA-HAA—heh—heh—heh—haha—HaHAHAA—haa-a-a-ha-a—

"Ha-hA-AAH-HA—ha-ha-haa—a-a—hehe—heh—Ha-HA—HA_HAHAA_—_HAAA-HA—_HAAA-AH-HA—

"HA-HA-HA_—HAA-HA—_HA-HA_—HAA-HEH—_HEH—HA_-A—HA-HAA—HA—HA—H**A**—**HA**—HA—HA—_

"_AAH—HAA-**HA**-HA—H-HEH—HE—_

"_HEEHEE-HEE—HAA-**HA**-HAA—HA—**HA**—H-HEH-**HA**—_

"—

"—

"—

"—

"—

"_Ha_—

"Hehe—heh—ha—

"—a—a—

"—

"—

"

…

…

…

…

…

… … … … … … … … … …. ….. … .…. …. ….. … ….. …. ….. … ….. …. ….. … ….. …

"_—little brother—_

"—

"—it's okay—it's—_okay_—

"Shhh—shh—sh-sh—"

—

Dick was on the floor, next to Tim, with one arm round the boy's back, half-lifting him off the floor. Tim's head hung back, and Jason watched Dick shift his elbow to support it, lift it so Dick could see his face, press his free hand to Tim's cheek as he spoke—

Jason couldn't make out the words.

His head was pounding.

"Dick—?" he breathed, squinting, not quite sure he knew what he was seeing, or where he was—

Dick looked around to him, though, pushing Tim's inquisitive fingers away from his face – his throat – without looking—

He held the kid's hand tight in his own.

It took him a moment to realise Dick was speaking.

"Are you okay?"

Jason blinked, and nodded distantly when Dick said his name, repeated the question again.

Jason moved, pushing himself to his feet against the cabinet, and clutching at door handles and the edge of the counter like he needed the support. Everything felt foggy, dizzying, and after a moment Jason concluded he must have blacked out at some point—

When Tim had laughed – Jason must have blacked out—

He shook his head fervently, ran a trembling hand through his hair, and took a deep breath.

"_Jason_," Dick said, insistently, and Jason looked down at him, still confused about how he'd even gotten there. "Water. For Tim. Please? I can't let him go."

Tim was a shaky mess in Dick's arms, the kid's hands tucked into his sleeves again, fingers tightly gripping the ends from inside—

He wasn't laughing anymore.

At least, there wasn't any sound.

"Right," Jason mumbled, and pushed off the counter, passing the pair to get to the sink. When he turned about, a full glass in hand, he held it out to Dick expectantly. The older man didn't so much as reach for it, though.

"Put it here," he said instead, gesturing the floor with a flick of his head, before shifting his weight. "I need you to hold Tim for me."

"What?" Jason blanched. "No."

"_Jason_," Dick all but glared at him. "I don't have time for your _crap _right now. Tim _needs _his medicine; if I don't give it to him _right now_, he could _die_. I can't hold him down and give it to him at the same time, so _you_ – sit the fuck down."

"O-okay," Jason dropped to his knees just behind Tim, almost toppling over the glass as he set it on the floor. "Um—"

Dick lifted Tim into a sitting position, scooting closer to Jason and depositing the boy in Jason's awkwardly held arms with his back to Jason's chest.

"Just, hold his arms," Dick instructed, allowing Jason's hands to take the place of his own. Tim shook, almost struggled at the brief loss of contact and Jason had to tighten his hold. Dick took hold of his wrists and moved him, wrapping Jason's arms around Tim's, folding the kid's across his chest to keep him steady. Tim's legs kicked out, off to the side, once or twice, before settling into a perpetual twitch. His shoulders still shook with mute laughter.

"Don't worry," Dick said, voice quiet – soothing – while he pulled a bottle of pills from the pocket of his jacket and popped the cap. He tipped out two into the palm of his hand, and scooted closer still. "Everything's going to be alright," for a moment, Jason thought Dick was speaking to him, but, "Come on, Timmy…"

Dick pressed his hand against the side of Tim's head, where it had lolled against Jason's arm, and lifted so he was looking up. Getting a good look at his face now, Jason could see Tim's eyes were wide open, wider than normal, while his lips spread into a big, unwavering grin.

It was all Jason could do not to lean back, distancing himself from that horrible expression – or gag altogether at the sight.

"Hold tight," Dick spared Jason a warning glance, before he tipped one of the pills down Tim's open mouth. At once Tim was thrashing, body trying to twist this way and that, only unsuccessful because Jason held him fast. He was shaking his head at the same time, and Jason was afraid he might sprain his neck with the force of it—

Dick had a fist in Tim's hair not a moment later, however, and the glass in his free hand. "Come on, Tim," he almost sounded like he was scolding the boy, as he put the edge of the glass to Tim's tight bottom lip. "You have to swallow. You'll feel better when you do, trust me—"

Tim's response was some unintelligible sound, deep in the back of his throat, and if he tried shaking his head again, it was useless against Dick's firm grasp.

Tim's heart was a hellish drumbeat against Jason's own, thudding too quickly.

Dick tipped the glass, spilling clear liquid into Tim's gaping mouth, even as he held the boy more firmly by the hair, dissuading any physical protest—

Tim gargled the water—

His eyes held less mirth and more panic—

Jason was taking deep, anxious breaths, his fingers digging into Tim's arms—

"_Dick_—!" he exclaimed, a fretful lilt to his brother's name, when Dick clamped his free hand – glass set roughly aside – across Tim's slipping grin, thumb and forefinger simultaneously holding his nose—

But Dick ignored him, fervently – desperately – whispering, "_Swallow_, dammit—"

It wasn't long before Tim did, unable not to, and Dick let him go, only to come back with the second pill, repeating the process—

Finally, with an exhausted sigh, Dick leaned back on his hands, shoulders slumping with relief even as he kept a vigil eye on Tim's expression – looking for the tell-tale signs that his medicine was starting to take effect.

Tim had already stopped thrashing, as if he'd decided the effort no longer mattered, since he'd swallowed the pills – or like his body just wasn't up for the extended exertion anymore. Tim had been convulsing on the floor, seemingly endlessly, when Dick found him—

Absently, Dick shook his head, not wanting to relive the memory—

He watched Tim's eyelids slowly start drooping, his posture sagging, arms relaxing in Jason's hold, fingers slack in their sleeves—

"_Dick_," Jason said, sounding distressed—

Dick jolted upright, immediately pressing his fingers to Tim's pulse, cradling his head in one hand, "_What_?" he looked to Jason and back again, Tim's pulse a steady thump against his fingers.

Jason's shoulders stiffened, "Is…" he hesitated, glancing down at Tim's near-serene expression, sounding unsure. "Is he…alright?" he asked quietly.

Dick sighed, a small smile crossing his lips at Jason's genuine concern, "Yeah," he replied, sitting back. "It's just the pills taking effect. He'll be fine, now…" Dick brushed his fingers through Tim's lengthy black hair, pushing them sideways across his sweaty forehead.

"Oh…" Jason said, posture noticeably relaxing, even though his hold on Tim didn't slacken, eyes on the youngest between them, and, with his head bowed thus, long curls hiding his face. The smile slipped from Dick's expression, hand retreating to settle fisted on his thigh, less he run his fingers through Jason's locks as well.

He was sorely tempted to – a vague memory, fleetingly surfacing, of him having done that long after the two of them had met, too long after Dick had officially passed on Robin's colours to his newly acquired _little brother_ – not replacement. Late one night – or, rather, early one morning – Jason drooling on the couch's armrest, having fallen asleep halfway through their movie, and, just watching the kid like that after having spent most of the day and a fair portion of patrol with him, Dick had been filled with a sense of warmth and responsibility. He'd wanted to scoop Jason up and hold him close for a bit – overwhelmed by a yearning for protecting he'd never thought he'd ever have the opportunity to feel. A big-brotherness he hadn't known he'd wanted. He'd settled for combing back Jason's hair affectionately, though, and shaking the kid by the shoulder to wake up.

It had been one of a few occasions – so few in fact, Dick thought he barely needed both hands to count them all – they'd spent any time together; that was a _good _time, void of the pressure to impress or approve, the tension created by their other identities and what they meant to Batman, not to mention Batman himself, or Dick and Bruce's quickly spiralling tolerance for each other at any given moment.

Dick dropped his gaze, accosted again by a fierce disappointment in himself for the way he'd let Jason down. He should have made sure there had been more of those moments. He'd certainly had plenty with Tim, even though it _had_ taken him a lot of time to get to the point where he could. Jason's death had been such a _gaping_ wound, and Tim had been an insistent stranger. He'd treated him badly, too, at first.

"I'm sorry," Dick said, and, it must have seemed abrupt, if the way Jason's head came up was any indication – just enough for Dick to make out the colour of his eyes, the intensity of his stare. The furrow to his brow was deep, expression caught somewhere between confusion, and _suspicion_ – as if Dick was about to tell him something…

…something he already should have—

"For not checking on you first," Dick elaborated, before Jason could ask him what for, because, his intention hadn't been to be vague, or to drag this out. There was genuine regret in the apology – because, the _way_ Jason had _looked_ when he'd come in—but – but he'd also said it, feeling the need for an appropriate segue. He doesn't want to just barrel through the doorway on this. "You weren't listening to me…barely moving, even, just—"

Dick watched Jason's expression closely as he spoke; the younger man's stare only getting harder—

"Anyway, Tim was already—" Dick switched tracks, gesturing vaguely at their younger brother. "I had to do something, before it was too late…"

Jason nodded, and looked away – not back at Tim, but…into the depths of his apartment instead, down the hallway to Dick's left, past his shoulder to the living room – eyes briefly narrowing when, Dick guessed, he saw the door – and toward the small kitchen space, finally.

Dick turned his head to look, as well, taking in Jason's crushed bottle of milk, scattered cans and other groceries all strewn haphazardly across the floor, with greater concern.

"What happened, Jay?" he asked quietly, and watched Jason swallow. "Did you fight?" he asked plainly, voice hard, when Jason didn't answer immediately. Dick wasn't sure _what_ exactly he was asking – if he was assuming the worst of Jason—

"_No_," Jason replied, though, serious – adamant,_ incredulous – _meeting Dick's eyes – his own, _bright_ green—and Dick—

—only felt the stiffness in his fingers, how tight he'd been holding them, when they relaxed – relieved.

"Okay," Dick said at once, "So – what happened?" he repeated, eager to steer the conversation away from the accusation he knew Jason had heard, behind his previous question.

Jason's lips thinned. He glanced at Tim, not knowing how honest he needed to be with Dick right now. "We had a conversation," he decided on, and then rushed forward realising he didn't want to rehash the details of _that_ "conversation" – or the one Tim had actually come over to have, either. "And Tim, he was—saying some things, when, all of a sudden he just—" letting go of one wrist, Jason waved a hand through the air in gesture – taking in Tim's current state, the space they occupied, the two feet of kitchen flooded with milk—

Jason clasped Tim's wrist again, firmly, as his breath stuttered and his head bowed lower – he felt sick. He should have—"I should have done something," he mumbled, and shut his eyes tight as if that could cover the shame he felt, because—"I just," all he could see was Tim, thrashing and _laughing _behind his eyelids—"I was here, with him, one moment, and the next—you were here, and I—" he couldn't quite look at Dick even as his head came up, eyes opened, wide with realisation, before he looked away again at once – not directly at Tim either—at his own hands against the dark grey of Tim's hoodie—"It's my fault—" he breathed.

"_Hey_, no," was Dick's immediate response, unsurprisingly to Jason, who shook his head in reply and cut Dick off even as his older brother's hands came down on his shoulders, his arms, for comfort—

"You said – Tim could have…_died_, without his medicine," Jason said, feeling the weight of the words hang heavy over his head. And here, he finally looked at Dick, "I wasn't helping him – I had _no idea_ what to do—I didn't even _try!_" he implored, feeling the heat of embarrassment and shame, and self-loathing, and disappointment creeping from the centre of his chest all the way up his neck – touching his cheeks, his ears—

"_Little Wing_," Dick's tone was equally as insistent, but he didn't get much further—

Jason shook his head fervently, "He could have _died_, Dick, while I was sitting around not doing a damned thing—"

"That's enough!" Dick snapped, fingers tightening on Jason's shoulders as he stared the younger man down.

Jason faltered, mouth agape, but no retort forthcoming, while his insides felt cold and the air not enough in his lungs—

He blinked. "I'm sorry…" he whispered, eyes lowering from Dick's intense gaze, shoulders slumping—

He realised—he was _clutching _at Tim. Feeling the rise and fall of the younger man's chest, feeling his own chest stretched against his back – tightly pressed against Jason as he held him firmly caged in his arms—

If Jason hadn't…_blacked out_ – might he have been able to coax Tim out of his manic attack? Maybe if he'd tried harder? Maybe if that obscene Joker-esque laugh didn't have such a damning effect on his insides? Maybe if Tim hadn't said—

—

—

Jason back-pedalled fast, not wanting to think about _that_, again.

If it weren't for Dick showing up out of apparently nowhere, Tim might have _died_ on his dirty kitchen floor while Jason sat three feet away none the wiser.

Trying so hard to find him, rescue him from the Joker, would have all been for nought.

And Dick…how would he have explained that to Dick, and Cassandra—_and Alfred_?

_Tim died in my apartment, while I was having a mental-breakdown; sorry I couldn't save him. Tough luck, Big Bird._

"_No_," Dick said, sincerely, squeezing Jason's shoulder – daring to press his palm to his little brother's cheek—

Jason blinked, and stared, and swallowed – carefully shifting away from Dick's touch—

Dick smiled a small smile nevertheless, "We're _assuming_," Dick began to explain, hand hovering a moment longer before he carefully retreated tight fists back to his thighs. "More than anything, that…this _thing_ Tim has," he looked at his once-again youngest brother, the peaceful expression on his face… "_could_, potentially, kill him, if left untreated for too long. Only because, Joker's Venom is commonly known to do that. Victims start laughing, and laughing, and laughing until they literally bust an organ, or, barring that, they go insane – hallucinating, doing crazy things, attacking people, exhausting themselves until their bodies are too weary and strained to keep functioning at all.

"All of which you know," he added, waving a hand. "But…what the Joker did to Tim," Dick continued, carefully glancing at Jason's reaction to those words, remembering how his younger brother had protested – not wanting to know the details of Joker's actions, before. Jason visibly flinched, if only slightly, but made no objection when Dick carried on, "It's different than anything we've seen before. We've been able to keep it at bay for long periods of time, with this 'medication,' but even so…it's pretty much _experimental_, at best…potentially damaging, at worst – we don't even know.

"There's hardly any real way to gauge it," he sighed, shoulders slumping. "It acts a little bit like a kind of infection. Or, maybe an allergen, even. The medication staves it off for a somewhat arbitrary amount of time. It always comes back on its own, regardless of how regularly Tim takes his medication," Dick put a hand on Tim's wrist, just beside Jason's hand. He gave the younger man a brief smile, "Let me just—" Jason half let go, allowing Dick to uncross Tim's arms so he could rifle through the boy's pockets.

When the front pair yielded nothing, Dick reached into Tim's still-unzipped hoodie to feel at apparent _inside_ pockets – producing a white plastic pill-bag a second later.

"But," he continued, as he opened the baggie. "He does have a relatively set schedule, and he's _supposed_ to always have some on him," Dick had shook out the bag above one open palm, but, as he already suspected, nothing fell out. He sighed. "He should know better than this. He should have refilled it before leaving the house!" Dick snapped at no-one, even though he was looking at Tim.

He looked more disappointed than angry, however.

And then, he just looked _crushed_. "There's always a chance it will hit him out of _nowhere_. There are…_triggers_ that make it act up again. It's hard to predict exactly _what_ those triggers will be at any given moment—"

"I should've known," Jason said, though it sounded like he was speaking more to himself than trying to cut into Dick's little monologue. Dick frowned at him, watched him carefully as he carried on, still not talking to Dick directly, "The way our conversation was going… If I had _known_ about—this _thing_," he griped, for lack of a more precise term, "If I had just _asked_ – or—or _let_ one of you tell me – what the Joker did—" he all but whispered, "—maybe I could've stopped him, from—" he didn't know how to even describe it, so he just didn't. Stopped speaking, knowing Dick knew what he meant.

And, Dick did know, but—

"I don't know…" Jason mumbled; tone quiet – defeated.

"None of us wanted that of you, Jay," Dick said sincerely. "We know how _hard_ having anything to do with the Joker must—must have been for you. Must _be_ for you, even now. It was hard for us to hear what had happened to Tim – when he finally told us himself. I can't imagine what _you'd_ feel if you'd have had to listen to that," Dick shook his head, forlorn. "Considering everything the Joker did to you, too, and everything that came after, after you were back…" he bit his lip, "I could probably not have told you, even if you'd asked…"

"Still," Jason said, at length, still refusing to excuse himself it seemed. "The fact is I didn't ask. And I _should _have."

Dick pinched Tim's empty pill-bag between his fingers, pressed tight, and didn't know what to say without losing his temper – at Jason's self-deprecating attitude Dick just didn't want to have to deal with anymore right then.

"I was scared…" Dick confessed, after a beat. "That, maybe this time…" the air felt heavy between them. "This time it'd be too bad. I'd be too late. And…we'd lose Tim. To Joker, like we lost you," he said, blunt and harsh, and looking up at Jason's face – but of course the younger man wasn't looking at him. "I might have been over-exaggerating, though…just a bit," he added, more gently. "I mean – the _worst_ case, we can only _assume_…is death, but… There's no way of knowing, I guess? Not until after it's too late."

It was quiet, then. Neither brother able to look at the other, or break the silence for a long, painful minute—

—as the minutes between them often seemed to be.

"You had enough reason to believe it would, though—kill him," Jason spoke quietly. "And if it had, I—I don't know what I would have done… How I would have lived with myself – with any of _you_," he admitted, and felt the truth of it deep in the marrow of his bones. He'd already caused them so much grief, agony, and _pain_ with what he'd done with Damian – and worse, he couldn't begin to regret his actions in that regard, but—_Tim_.

_This_. Would have been _so much worse._ Tim could have been _dead_, and it would _really_ have been Jason's fault.

His coming back had been a _fluke_ at best.

There was no guarantee like that for any of them anymore.

"But he _didn't_," Dick whispered.

"Only thanks to _you_ – breaking down my door," Jason replied, peeved only half-heartedly, as he looked beyond Dick's shoulder. The chain had been the only thing keeping the door locked before. It was snapped now, the door left ajar, and Jason could only assume Dick had kicked it open, chain be damned, and rushed in without any regard for potentially curious neighbours appearing.

To his great relief, none of them had as of yet. This time of day, they weren't generally at home, after all, but – one could hardly ever be _too_ careful.

_—there's that infamous Bat-paranoia at work._

"Yeah…" Dick said, sheepish. "Sorry about that."

"How did you even know where to find us?" Jason asked, genuinely perplexed.

"I pinged Tim's phone the moment it came on," Dick explained, and Jason nodded knowingly – apparently, the kid had been telling the truth about that, then, "It was only for a second, though," or, at least, mostly, "But it was enough to get me an address. I rushed over right away. I had no idea I was going to find you here. I didn't know _what_ I was going to find here."

"You told Alfred where you were going, didn't you?" Jason asked, bemused.

"Of course," Dick replied, curiosity colouring his tone as he picked up on Jason's own.

"Didn't he recognize the address?" Jason questioned, and Dick blinked, not bothering to hide any surprise.

"No. Should he have?"

"I…don't know," Jason said, eyes on the top of Tim's head, expression calculating. "Tim said Alfred told him where I was; that's how he found me."

"He'd have told me, then," Dick said confidently, and then, after a beat, "Timmy must have…"

"Lied," Jason supplied, if quietly.

Dick pressed his lips into a thin line, eyes on Tim, but he made no reply.

Jason snorted, "I guess he's not the _perfect_ little replacement, after all…"

"He was _never_ your _replacement,_ Jason," Dick said, pointed and exasperated – because this was not the first time someone had tried to explain this to Jason.

Jason gave his brother a dry, uncaring look, though, ignoring Dick's tone. "Sure." He added quickly, just as Dick had drawn a breath to retort, "I don't want to talk about it."

Dick huffed, annoyed, "Well, _that's_ typical," he rolled his eyes.

"Excuse me?" Jason challenged.

"If you don't want to discuss it, you shouldn't have brought it up," Dick said.

"I was only _saying_—" Jason started, but cut himself off, irately swiping a hand through the air, "You know what – never mind. I got replaced; it's my prerogative to bring it up. _And _end the discussion about it."

"Not that there's _been_ a discussion, yet," Dick mumbled, though not quietly enough.

"I think you should take your little bird," Jason said, almost abrupt with the calmness of his tone. "And leave."

"Jason—

"I'm _sorry_," Dick implored, genuine despite his obvious frustration. He heaved a heavy sigh, shoulders drooping. He was feeling—

Confused. And a little _hurt_, somehow. Maybe for Tim's benefit? But – _how_ could Jason still think of Tim as his _replacement_? Was this what Jason had meant – when he'd said nothing had changed after his conversation with Bruce?

"But," Dick added, and braced himself, "'My little bird' came all the way here without telling me, or Cass, or Alfred," Jason very carefully didn't _wince_ at the absence of Bruce's name on that list, "and _without his medication _– when he _knows_ how much he needs it," he paused. "Why is that? What was he doing here, exactly?"

Jason stuck his tongue in his cheek, contemplating.

"If you don't want to talk about anything else, that's fine," Dick goaded. "But I'm not going anywhere until you tell me this."

"You can just ask him yourself, you know," Jason sniped. "In between the lecture, when he wakes up."

Dick scowled. "No. _You_ tell me. I'm asking you."

…

…

…

Finally, Jason gave in to Dick's hard stare – if only partially, "He wanted… to tell me something… _important_," Jason was gauging Dick's reaction, if he were honest. Part of him wanted to bait Dick into confessing it – was already trying to. Because – how long had Bruce been dead? And, it wasn't _Dick_ – desperate-to-have-him-for-a-little-brother-Dick – at his door with the news? If _Tim_ in his addled state could find Jason, he was certain Dick, all his eggs accounted for, _could have_, too. Then why hadn't Jason heard it _earlier_? From _Dick_ himself? He'd had opportunity, _dammit_—

"And…" Dick started, but there was hesitation in his tone. Of course Dick knew _exactly _what Tim was doing here. He'd been arguing with his little brother all week over letting Jason know about—

And.

Tim had not agreed with Dick putting it off for as long as he was doing. When they'd realised Tim had left the manor without telling anyone or leaving some kind of note or indication as to where he was going – Dick had known he might have gone looking for Jason. _Of course_. He just hadn't been expecting Tim to actually find Jason.

"Did he?" Dick swallowed thickly, and tried looking more relaxed than he felt. If Tim's condition when he'd come in was any indication – that was exactly the kind of news that might have triggered so severe an attack. Not to mention Jason's own state—"Did he tell you—the important thing?" it came out so much quieter than what Dick had thought it would. And he realised, he was losing his nerve. What if the answer was _yes_—?

What if it was—?

"No," Jason said, too quick and too abrupt and too final for it to be true—

"Who's the liar, now?"

Jason started – as did Dick – at _Tim_ suddenly interjecting. Jason could feel his face flush at the lie, besides, and his fingers tighten their hold on Tim involuntarily – less as a threat to the kid, and more as a means of anchoring _himself_.

"Tim!" Dick exclaimed, and had his hands on the side of the younger man's face at once.

Tim's eyes were open, and _blue_, and on Jason's face, and _knowing_ – the curve of his lips almost smug and testing, and _challenging_ – but thankfully _Tim_, not—something _else_—

"I'm fine," Tim directed at Dick, who still pushed his hair back, and felt at his forehead, at his pulse. "Ease up, will you," Tim said, as he started shifting, and both Dick and Jason let him go, sitting back.

Tim came erect with a sigh, rubbing at the back of his neck with both hands. Jason watched his fingertips come free of their sleeves to _press_ at his skin there and he swallowed, resisting the urge to feel at his own neck, where Tim had dug in and held on with those same fingers.

Everything had happened so quickly after Tim had tried _strangling_ him – and now he was sitting there like nothing had.

Jason scowled.

"Why is this empty?" Dick's tone was scolding, and, looking over Tim's shoulder, Jason could see he had the pill-bag up, shaking it in front of Tim's face in exactly the manner Jason had thought he'd do.

Jason saw Tim's shoulders stiffen.

"I just forgot," he said, quietly. "I'm sorry."

"You _know better_," Dick continued. Tim must have pulled a face, Jason figured, because Dick clamped a hand on the younger man's shoulder and gave him an intense look, saying, "_Tim_. This is _serious_."

"Yes. _Fine_. I got it," Tim scathed, to Jason's surprise, and shrugged Dick's hand off even as he got to his feet. "I'll do better next time, _okay_?"

"Tim," Dick said again, somewhere between aggravation and defeat, as he stood.

Jason followed suit, but tugged Tim by the shoulder once he was up, to turn the younger man halfway in his direction. "I told you he'd be worried," Jason said, almost smugly. Tim gave him a dry, unimpressed look, to which Jason shrugged.

With a huff, Dick caught Tim by the arm, "Come on. We've overstayed our welcome. Let's go home."

Tim forced his arm free, however, and looked at Dick incredulously, "You're kidding, right?"

"_Tim_," Dick half-hissed, expression warning.

"Yeah. Get out," Jason said, waving a hand as if to shoo them.

Tim turned to scowl at him before facing Dick again. He couldn't believe this was happening. Dick was being an absolute _dick_. "We're not leaving until you tell him."

Jason stiffened, knowing full-well what Tim was referring to, and assumed he must be thinking Jason hadn't heard him the first time, or hadn't taken him seriously. By the look Dick was giving Tim, though, Jason concluded his hunch was correct – Dick w_as_ trying to hide it from Jason. He _didn't _want him to know Bruce was dead.

Dick all but confirmed it in the next moment, catching Tim securely by the arm and lowering his voice, gaze intent and fixed on Tim, but Jason still heard, "_Not _right now."

It stung, and the pain was a new kind of hurt Jason had no desire to keep on feeling.

"_Tell him_, Dick," Tim kept his tone level, but didn't lower his voice any, unconcerned about Jason hearing. "Or _I _will."

"Look, whatever it is," Jason cut in, turning their attention to him. "I don't even _care_ – just go."

"You don't know what you're saying," Tim dismissed, at the same time Dick tugged uselessly at his arm—

"Come on—"

Completely ignoring Dick, eyes boring into Jason's, determined expression on the kid's face; Tim visibly gulped in a brief breath before he started, "Jason, Bruce is—"

"_Don't_ say it again," Jason snapped, panic rippling through his limbs out of nowhere, and propelling his arm up, hand all but slapping Tim's mouth shut—

Tim recoiled, backing up into Dick, who caught him by the arms to steady him – both of them staring wide-eyed at Jason—

He'd only _just_ panicked, _just _cut Tim off, when his stomach _churned_, and he could _feel_ every morsel he'd had for breakfast and been munching on since midnight, shooting back up his oesophagus—

He spun to hunch over the sink, vomiting all over his unwashed dishes with a violent shudder.

"Jason—" Dick was next to him in a second, hovering with his hands raised uncertainly.

Jason gagged a second time, shoulders hunching, arms and hands and fingers feeling like their bones were vibrating. He breathed, bottom lip trembling, and the inside of his mouth watering, a trail of spittle dangling into the sink.

"I'm so sorry," Dick whispered by his side, finally letting his hand drop to Jason's back, rubbing soothing circles the way he'd been doing for Tim – Tim who'd hunched his shoulders and looked away the moment Jason turned to vomit. He'd looked back by now, though, Dick saw when he looked over at their youngest brother – to scowl at him. He was furious with Tim, he realised – for leaving the manor without a word and putting himself in danger, only to come over to Jason's – and how the hell did he even _know_ where Jason lived?! – and _tell him the thing_ Dick had thought they'd _agreed_ to hold off on. Until Dick could _find_ Jason again, anyway. The Red Hood hadn't disappeared from Gotham altogether, but rumour was he was on a very particular case that was taking up all of his time. It was hush-hush and he was scarce. Dick had tried the safe-house Alfred had known about the past couple of nights, and a few others he'd unearthed over the course of the year, but none of them had given him a clue. He'd left Jason notes, and they'd been left unanswered so far. Probably Jason hadn't even found them yet.

All the while, Dick had been trying to deal with his own mounting grief after Bruce's passing – while trying to comfort Cass and Tim both, and keeping his chin up for Alfred, and—

And he'd had no idea what Jason's reaction would have been. He just…needed a little more _time_.

Tim…

Well, Dick didn't know what the hell Tim had been thinking.

Could hardly gauge his expression at present, for that matter. He was unfazed by the scowl, returning Dick's gaze with a level expression of his own. "He deserves to know," Tim said simply.

Dick only looked at him harder, free hand fisting, "I'm not arguing over _that_," he said tightly. "But there was no need to do it like _this_. Right _now_."

Tim returned his scowl, before crossing his arms and looking away. Dick rolled his eyes.

"Hand me that," he said shortly, gesturing the glass on the floor. Tim scooped to obey, and Dick emptied the glass in the other side of the sink, refilling it with cool water.

Jason had heard what they'd been saying, of course, and he'd listened without a word. Partly because he was feeling shaky and sick, and a headache was slowly making itself known. He'd pressed his palm against his forehead, other hand on the counter by the sink, and closed his eyes once it felt like he wouldn't throw up anything more.

"Here," Dick said gently, touching at his raised arm to get his attention.

Jason turned enough to take the glass, sipping slowly. He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, all the while keeping his head ducked, while Dick looked around for a hand towel. Jason took it to wipe his mouth with after he'd set down the glass, then handed it back to Dick to hang up neatly where he'd found it.

Jason turned his head to regard Tim, scowling at a wall.

"You're a real piece of work, kid," he said.

"I got it from you," Tim replied, easy and flippant.

"Cute," Jason said crossly, scowling. "But flattery won't help you here."

Tim snorted, opened his mouth like he meant to retort, but Dick cut in, hands raised between them—

"Okay, stop."

Tim shut his mouth, but glared at Jason, who glared right back before he looked away with a groan.

Not ten minutes ago he'd been _frickin'_ _cradling_ Tim in his damn arms, scared—

—

—

—_shit_—

—

—

—_scared_ that the younger man might be _dead_ any second, and now here he was, thoroughly annoyed at him and his smartass mouth.

Jason swallowed thickly, the sour taste of vomit no less present for the water he'd drunk, and the unpleasantness of it a suitable punishment for his present attitude.

He felt guilty again.

But no less pissed.

"…Don't get me started on _you_, Dickie," Jason said, somewhat belatedly.

Dick dropped his hands, and, to his credit, didn't pretend at ignorance, "Jason, I'm _sorry_," he said. "I've been meaning to tell you. It's not like I have your number," he added in a mumble, spiking Jason's annoyance, because _that_ what a shitty excuse.

"You saw me _Monday morning_. By the docks," Jason accused, meeting Dick's eyes with a twisted expression he couldn't manage to keep off his face, but – his older brother just watched him vomit into a sink; there was hardly any justification left for hiding things now.

"Yeah. I saw you," Dick said evenly, but his fingers were flexing and his shoulders were too straight. "All suited up, just sitting on a roof, keeping an eye," he faltered, glancing away, swallowing. "You looked busy, though. I didn't want to—_interrupt_—"

It was a testament to his discomfort that Dick wasn't gesturing with his hands or stepping further into Jason's space as he tried, only half-heartedly, to justify—

The man felt guilty as sin; Jason could see it all over his face, and Jason—

It was _satisfying_, dammit.

"Oh! The old 'you were busy'-excuse. I love that one," Jason said, attempting false humour, exaggerated sarcasm – _something_ – and sounding only _bitter_.

"Jason—"

"How _long_, Dick?" Jason spat, dropping the attitude for all the aching desperation he felt curdling beneath the surface, even as he wasn't sure it was more out of seriousness and less out of spite. Dick had practically frozen at the question, his blue eyes widening just a fraction – Jason noticed because he'd been looking for it. Tim, in his peripheral, had his own blue eyes fixed on Jason, having gone just as still.

"How long has he been _dead_, _Dick_?" Jason demanded, when the older man didn't immediately answer.

"…It happened Sunday," Dick's voice was no louder than a whisper. "Sunday morning."

The next moment Jason was heaving, eyes on the floor, where, apparently, he'd shattered the glass of water Dick had handed him before. He reached back, searching for the edge of the counter and gripping it with a steadying hand—

It was too soon—

—

—he'd wanted more time. He'd wanted to go back to—

—one of his many _not_-mothers—

—to ask her again – beg if he needed to—

Bruce couldn't.

Jason couldn't.

—but she'd told him "no," and explained again, and Jason had left feeling—

Abandoned.

And betrayed.

And stupid.

But still desperate.

Still vaguely determined.

He'd meant to try again—he _knew_ – _he knew _– what he'd been asking; the consequences of it – having gone through it himself, after all, but—

He hadn't cared at the time.

He'd have agreed to do almost anything if she'd only said—

Yes.

—

It was too late, now.

"Jay…" Dick spoke, careful, and when Jason looked at him, he saw Tim at his side – shoulders hunched, looking small – and Dick's hand loose around his wrist—

Jason looked back to the glass on the floor – to Tim – and back again – to where Tim had been standing—

"I'm sorry," he blurted.

"Okay," came the reply, and, Jason was startled to find, it had come from Tim instead of Dick, sounding perfectly amenable.

They stared at each other for several quiet seconds; Dick shifting his weight from one foot to another as the silence mounted.

"It's Thursday," Jason breathed, when the tail-end of their conversation suddenly came back to him. Eyes on Dick, he scowled.

"I know," his older brother agreed.

"Were you just going to keep this from me?" Jason asked, surprising even himself with how despondent and _broken_ he sounded. He didn't know if he meant what he asked, or if it was the spite in his gut blindly accusing—

"No—"

"You _saw me_ Monday—I was _one building away_!" Jason sounded to himself like he was pleading.

Dick had let go of Tim – who'd crossed his arms tightly over his chest, fingers hidden inside sleeves – raised his hands, but didn't move them, "It was—" he griped, a burn at the back of his throat, "—still too _fresh_, for me—"

"Always about you—" Jason waved a hand, dismissive.

"I didn't _know_ how to tell you then!" Dick slammed one fisted hand onto the counter beside them. Tim jumped. "And _yes_, I _didn't_ want to," he continued, heatedly, shooting a brief, accusatory glance at Tim. "I didn't want to tell you out the dark," Dick came forward, too quick, words biting, "and the cold, wearing masks and using codenames—we're a _family_!" despite having seen it coming, and trying to move, to back off, to avoid – Dick still managed grabbing Jason by his sweater. He held him there, pinned with his back against the counter, Dick's forearms solid against Jason's chest, and it was all Jason could do not to slip across the tiles and sink to the floor. He clutched at the lip of the counter, watched Dickie's expression.

"I looked for you after," Dick's lashes were wet, "I checked your safe houses; I _tried_ to find you," his eyes shining with unshed tears. "I _wanted_ to tell you – _of course_ you deserve to know," his tone held a modicum of resentment – towards Jason, towards Tim, for them thinking otherwise of him, but Dick couldn't care less whether they realised that or not, just then. "I just didn't know how you would react," he shook his head, breaking his eye-contact with Jason, "and I wanted you _safe_," the words came a little slower, a little quieter, but no less urgently, "and _home_—" and then his voice cracked, and Dick swallowed a breathy sob, his head falling forward, forehead touching his hands still holding tight to the fabric of his little brother's clothing. "…when I did…"

…

…

…

Jason couldn't calm the beat of his pulse, even though the knowledge that Dick could feel it made him nervous. Dick's shoulders weren't shaking. He didn't sound like he was crying. Somehow that made it worse.

Jason let his head fall back. Blinked at the ceiling. He breathed in a shuddering breath, unable to suppress it, and Dick stayed, moving with his heaving chest.

"I'm so sorry…" Dick whispered.

"Dick…" Tim started, quietly, arms no longer stiff, posture less rigid and reserved. Coming closer, he lifted a hand to Dick's shoulder, but didn't make it all the way there, left his hand hanging in the air instead. "_I'm_ sorry," he said. "You never…you didn't," Jason watched as the kid swallowed, looked away, and, for the first time he looked like he was feeling the weighty consequences of his actions. "This is my fault…" he whispered.

With a sniff, Dick came erect, swallowing as his gaze met Jason's – shiny, clear tear-tracks run down his cheeks, making Jason's breath hitch.

"No, Tim," Dick said, wiping his face with the palms of both hands before facing him. Jason didn't move even though he was let go. "You were right. We should have been here sooner."

Tim didn't say anything until Dick offered a small smile and Jason straightened himself out. "Okay," came Tim's eloquent reply.

"Well, you've said your piece," the room felt suffocating, now that the adrenalin had faded and the heat ebbed. Jason couldn't even feel angry at Dick anymore, after that display. Perhaps it truly had been nothing but spite egging him on before.

"Saturday," Dick cut off, without looking back at him, needing to say this before they get kicked out. "The funeral, you should come—"

Jason grabbed him by the lapel of his jacket, shaking roughly, snarling, "_Get out_."

"Not until you _promise_," Dick countered, clasping Jason's wrist and meeting his gaze almost fearlessly.

Jason glared, said, slowly and deliberately, "_No_."

"He's your father," Dick said, maintaining his calm despite the turn of his mouth, the furrow of his brow, or the red rimming his eyes. The expression was jarring to Jason, but he made himself keep looking anyway.

"Don't you _dare_," Dick threatened, holding tighter, before Jason could reply – afraid he might repeat the "no." "_Of course he is_." A beat. "Was," he amended quietly. "And I want you to be there. Tim wants you there. Cass, too. And _Alfred_," Dick said like that was the clincher. "_Please_."

Jason's mouth felt thick like cotton, his throat sore and his stomach twisting, tongue heavy as lead—

"We need you there, too, Jay," Dick kept whispering.

_"Don't reject him out of hand. He needs—"_

"You're part of the family—"

_"—he needs his…his…little brother—s."_

"Please. Leave," Jason said, when he could finally speak again, and let go of Dick's jacket. His wrist slipped right out of Dick's hand to fall to his side.

"Come on…" it was Tim's voice, quiet, and in the corner of his vision – Jason having dropped his gaze to the floor – he could see Tim tugging Dick away by the arm. "…He needs some time, Dick…"

…

…

…

…

Distantly, he heard the door shut.

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

Jason was only half-aware of himself as he walked – weary and heart sore – to the couch – shoving the coffee table aside with his foot, almost violently, rather than circling in—

—where he flopped down face first into the pillows. Crying.


End file.
